■ ■'.'■.'".'. 




UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



POEMS, 






MRS. MARY NOEL McDONALD 



" To me, the meanest flower that blows can give 
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears." 

Wordsworth. 






NEW-YORK 
1844. 



/7^£^ 









COPY-EIGHT SECURED, 






Pudney, Hooker & Russell, Printers. 



A volume like the present, whose circulation it was supposed would be a 
limited one, seems scarcely to require an introduction : but, having met 
with a success which has far exceeded the writer's expectations, she deems 
it proper to state, that many of the pieces have previously appeared in the 
periodicals of the day, and are now for the first time collected. They have 
not been arranged in the order of their dates, but in accordance with their 
subjects — those at the close of the volume being the productions of earlier 
years. 



CONTENTS 



PACK. 

The Emigrant's Sabbath Day, 9 

The Heavens, 17 

The Loved and Lost 21 

The Marriage Vow 25 

Nature's Teachings 23 

The Dying Boy, 32 

An Old Man's Reminiscence 37 

The Spirit's Whisper, 41 

The Promised Land, 45 

The Child at Prayer, 48 

To a City Pigeon, 51 

Thought 55 

Tasso's Crown, 53 

The Return of Summer C2 

Keepsakes, C7 

The Sculptor's Dream of Home, 75 

To Estelle, 80 

Remembrance, 85 



VI CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

Lament of Age for Boyhood, 88 

An Autumn Thought, 92 

The Dying Wife to Her Husband, 95 

The Land of Joy, 100 

The Summer Rain, 103 

Elegiac in Memory of Mrs. S. W. C e, 106 

Night, 109 

The Diamond of the Desert, 110 

Our Rest, 113 

Ministering Spirits 116 

The Absent Communicant, 117 

Stanzas, suggested by the death of a young daughter of the 

Rev. Dr. Schroeder, 121 

Ordination, 124 

Christmas, 126 

Happiness, 129 

A Lament, inscribed to the Memory of L. A. C 130 

Prosperity, 133 

Adversity, 134 

To the Portrait of a Child, 135 

Ten Years Ago, 137 

In Memory of Heniy S. Craig, 142 

To a Friend at Parting, 146 

Winter Twilight, 148 

Past and Present, 149 

To a Picture of Pierre De Comillan, Grand Master of the Knights 

Hospitallers, in a Painter's Studio, 152 

June, 155 

Sonnet to a Child, 158 

The Old Album, 159 

March, 164 



CONTENTS. Vll 

PAGE. 

The Frozen Stream, 167 

A Whisper from Fairy Land, 168 

Early Days, 174 

Thanks for a Boqiiet, 178 

The First Snow, 180 

To , 181 

To the Moon, 184 

The Maiden to her Mirror, 189 

Constancy, 193 

To Annie, a Valentine, 195 

Winter, 197 

The Love Letter, suggested by a Picture, 200 

A Sigh for the Past, 203 

Serenade, 207 



THE EMIGRANT'S SABBATH DAY. 



The morning breaketh, and the sacred day, 
Jehovah's Sabbath, calls each heart to pray; 
A deeper hush the universe pervades ; 
A softer whisp'ring fills the forest shades ; 
The streams go murmuring with a gentler flow, 
And sweeter breezes fan the vales below ; 
Birds trill their notes, to fancy's ear less gay, 
In blest accordance with the sacred day ; 
2 



10 THE EMIGRANT'S SABBATH DAY. 

While flowers send up their incense thro' the dews 

To Him who robed them in their varied hues, 

Who filled each bell with fragrance, gave each bud 

A richer dye, or some abundant good, 

And strewed them, gemlike, o'er the smiling land, 

Marks of his love, and wonders of his hand. 

Now on the breeze, from verdant valleys swell 

The distant echoes of the Sabbath bell ; 

To the rapt ear, as they were voiced from heaven, 

The mellow tones harmoniously are given ; 

To humble fanes the villagers repair, 

Bow down the heart, and bend the knee in prayer, 

And hear from lips revered the message high 

Of Him who governs all immensity. 

But turn awhile to other scenes than these — 
Lo ! 'neath the shelter of umbrageous trees, 
Within some forest of the western wilds, 
In sweet seclusion, a rude cabin smiles. 
A little band, from regions far away, 
Here find a home — and happy children play 
On the green sward, as careless and as free, 
As summer birds that build on every tree. 



THE EMIGRANT'S SABBATH DAY. 11 

Now breaks the day of rest — his labour done, 
Gladly the exile greets the coming sun. 
Hush'd every sound, the heavy axe is still, 
Nor waken' d echo haunts the wooded hill. 
'Tis silent all — the blue o'er-arching sky 
Scarce answers to the wild birds' melody ; 
Within the forest glades the dappled deer 
Roams undisturbed, nor dreams of danger near ; 
All is so peaceful, beautiful, and still, 
He quaffs the stream without a thought of ill, 
Forgets the hunter's rifle flashing nigh, 
Nor turns, with quivering ear, to start and fly. 

The sun rides on, — beside their cabin door, 
Within the tree's deep shadow — arching o'er 
Its branching arms, to shelter from the heat 
The lowly roof and the green mossy seat — ■ 
The emigrants repose ; — to them the day 
Passes serenely, ling'ringly away. 
Mem'ry retraces happier hours gone by, 
Dwells on past joys, with retrospective eye, 
Which thro' the lengthen' d vista brightly glow, 
With rainbow light, the future cannot know. 



12 THE EMIGRANT'S SABBATH DAY. 

Vainly, alas ! they strain the anxious ear 

The Sabbath bell's sweet harmony to hear — 

No sacred temple, 'neath their glorious sky, 

Points its tall spire, to lift the thoughts on high ; 

No voice proclaims the Gospel message blest, 

Nor Christian worship marks the day of rest. 

The mother, with a babe upon her knee, 

Lulls its complaint with some low melody, 

Musing, with eye half-dimm'd by gathering tears, 

On the lovM scenes of earlier, happier years, 

In fancy seeks the village church again, 

Joins in the prayer, and lifts the hallow' d strain, 

Sings the sweet hymns she learned in childhood's day, 

With friends beloved, in places far away. 

The father, while his children cluster round, 
Opens God's book, with reverence profound, 
And reads some sacred story of the past, 
Of him upon the Nile's dark waters cast, 
A helpless babe, till she of high degree, 
Proud Pharaoh's daughter, chanc'd the ark to see ; 
Of him, the shepherd boy, whose single blow 
Brought great Goliah's boasted prowess low ; 



THE EMIGRANT'S SABBATH DAY. 13 

Of youthful Samuel, early call'd to be 

The chosen servant of the Deity ; 

Or where angelic hosts at night proclaim 

The infant Saviour born in Bethlehem ; 

And as they listen still with fixed eye, 

Traces the rugged path to Calvary, 

Binds on the sinless brow the thorny crown, 

Marks the dark stream of blood come flowing down, 

Hears the last cry, sees how the rocks are riven, 

Till parting clouds convey Him back to heaven, 

Then shuts the holy volume to exclaim, 

" My little flock, for you the Saviour came." 

Eve brings its shadows, — all the western sky 
Is hung with sunset's gorgeous drapery 
Of gold and crimson — where the wearied sun 
Spreads his rich couch, the day's long journey done. 
The air is freshen'd, and the silver dew 
Falls silently upon the violet's tender blue, 
Softening its beauty — and the fair wild rose 
Droops its young head, like childhood to repose. 
The birds have sought their shelter ; — each soft nest 
Hides a wing'd rover, as on downy breast, 



14 THE EMIGRANT'S SABBATH DAY. 

And head close crouched beneath its feathery dress, 
The wind-rock'd cradle soothes its weariness. 
The twilight deepens — in the welkin blue, 
A few pale stars are glimmering faintly through — 
Night's sentinels. But hark ! what voices raise, 
Within the forest depths, the hymn of praise ? 
'Tis childhood's melody, in sweet accord 
Breaks forth the simple lay of hallow'd word, 
And when the trembling notes almost expire, 
A mother's tongue assists the timorous choir. 

They cease — and borne upon the summer air, 

Come the firm tones of pure and earnest prayer. 

In solitary wilds that household band 

Kneel to the God of nations — he whose hand 

Hath guided safely thro' the parted day 

Their pilgrim footsteps, in the narrow way. 

They pray for home and friends, the dear ones bending, 

Perchance for them when twilight shades are blending, 

Before the mercy seat — but oh ! the prayer 

More fervently ascends, when pleading there 

For the pure light of heavenly truth, to bless 

Their lonely home within the wilderness. 



THE EMIGRANT'S SABBATH BAY. 15 

They ask, that yet, amid the forests dim, 

May echo holy psalm, and pealing hymn; 

That once again, ere life's short day is gone, 

Their ears may list the Gospel's cheering tone, 

Proclaim'd by one commission'd from on high, 

To speak the message of the Deity. 

And when the day is past, and night's dark pall 

Is spread o'er earth, — while stars a festival 

Are keeping in their high and holy home, 

And soft on human lids sweet slumbers come, 

The exiles rest, to greet in pleasant dreams 

Their native vales, green woods, and shining streams, 

Forgetful of the weary leagues that spread 

Between them and the land they long to tread. 

Go forth, ye heralds — may the Gospel's voice 
Soon bid the lonely wilderness rejoice. 
Tho' friends and home the emigrant has left, 
Still let him feel as not of all bereft ; 
Bear to his ear, with all their thrilling power, 
The strains he learned to love in childhood's hour, 
The prayers which taught his youthful heart to rise 
On faith's unfailing pinion to the skies ; 



16 THE EMIGRANT'S SABBATH DAY. 

Spread the lov'd feast, and to the sacred board 
Invite each trembling servant of the Lord ; 
Seal with baptismal water infant brows ; 
Join plighted hands, and sanction nuptial vows ; 
Beside the bed of death speak words of peace, 
And soothe the spirit waiting its release ; 
And when the last dark conflict shall be o'er, 
When sin and sorrow pain the soul no more, 
Then lay the form in dust with solemn prayer, 
And consecrate the ashes slumb'ring there. 



17 



THE HEAVENS 



1 The Heavens declare the glory of God, and the 
firmament slioweth his handy-work." 



Is it not glorious — the arch of blue 
Spread out above us by our Maker's hand? 
The mighty dome a heaven-built temple knew, 
When springing forth at God's all- wise command ; 
How it doth stretch away o'er sea and land, 
Unpillared — since the hour His mandate clear 
Fixed its unmeasured limit, thus to stand 
Till the last trump shall burst upon the ear, 
And nations wake from death, their final doom to hear ! 
3 



18 THE HEAVENS. 

'Tis morn, the gates of light are opened wide — 
See from the orient comes the god of day ! 
He mounts his dazzling chariot to ride, 
Like a proud monarch, his appointed way : 
Onward he journeys, till his noontide ray 
Pierces each leafy screen, each wooded dell, 
Then westward rolling, pass the heats away ; 
And when chimes clearly out the vesper bell, 
'Mid clouds of gorgeous hue, he bids the world farewell. 



Night curtains earth again, each weary child 
Of frail mortality it calls to rest ; 
And now the moon's pale crescent undefiled, 
Hangs like a silver boat in the cool west ; 
Or, older waxing, pours her radiance blest, 
Where city streets lie silent 'neath her beams, 
Robing all nature in her spotless vest, 
And mirrored in a thousand mighty streams, 
And lighting ocean's foam, and on the white sail gleams. 

Nor cometh she alone — the stars are there, 
Those flaming jewels set by God on high ; 



T II E H E A V E N S . 19 

Transient but beautiful, the meteor's glare 
Lights for a moment the uplifted eye ; 
Orion and the Pleiades are nigh, 
The Polar Star unwearied, and with them 
The day's bright herald, as the night lays by 
The regal splendors of her diadem, 
And lost in greater glory, fades each radiant gem. 

But more, look up once more, and trembling see 
The clouds unfurl their banners in the sky : 
Loud rolls the thunder's dread artillery, 
And swift and fierce the winged lightnings fly ; 
Veil, mortal, veil thy terror-stricken eye, 
Jehovah speaks to listening man below ; 
And now the blast is spent, the storm gone by, 
The sun shines forth triumphantly, and lo ! 
The darkest cloud is spanned by the bright promise- 
bow ! 

The heavens declare thy glory — in his might 
The sun tells out thy praise from day to day — 
The stars, the myriad stars, at noon of night, 
Sing as they keep their fixed, unerring way ; 



20 THEHEAVENS. 

Silent they seem to man — but oh ! each ray- 
Is vocal with creation's choral hymn — 
Far rolling orbs take up the rapturous lay, 
And distant planets, vast, obscure and dim, 
Swell the loud anthem, clear as white-robed seraphim. 

The heavens declare thy glory — who can gaze, 
Almighty Father ! on that azure sea, 
With all its countless barks of light, yet raise 
Nor voice nor grateful tribute unto thee ? 
Thine are the dazzling worlds of light we see, 
And each their Maker's majesty proclaim, 
Burn in their orbits by thy sure decree, 
And write thy power in characters of flame, 
Meet page, Eternal God ! to bear thy glorious name. 



2 J 



THE LOVED AND LOST. 



'The shadows of deatli o'er ray path have been sweeping', 

There are those who have loved me, debarred from the day, 
The green turf is bright where in peace they are sleeping, 

And on wings of remembrance my soul is away. 
'Tis shut to the glow of this present existence, 

It hears from the past a funereal strain, 
And eagerly turns to the high-seeming distance, 
Where the last blooms of earth will be garnered again." 

Willis G. Clark. 



Come to my heart again, ye long departed, 

Come, fill the vacant places at our hearth ; 
Vainly for you the bitter tears have started, 

Since ye forsook for heaven the haunts of earth. 
Vainly, ye lost, we yearn for your caressing, 

And ask the tender tones which once we heard ; 
On the still air there comes no whispered blessing, 

Mute is each lip, and lost each loving word. 



22 THE LOVED AND LOST. 

Come once again, there is a shadow o'er us, 

Earth seems a weary land since ye are gone, 
Dim is the lengthened pathway spread before us, 

And distant far the goal which ye have won : 
Vainly the spring-time, in its bloom returning, 

Wakes the young buds, and clothes the earth, anew 
Unto our hearts, with quenchless love still burning, 

What, what avails its beauty, 'reft of you ! 



Thou, the dear friend of girlhood, memory traces 

Full many an hour of gladness linked with thee, 
And in thy children's fair and gentle faces, 

Some loved resemblance of thyself may see. 
Thou, the kind guardian of my childhood's hours, 

My guide in youth, thine absence I deplore ; 
See the dark cloud that on her pathway lowers, 

Come to thy child, and be her shield once more. 



And thou, the best and dearest, words can never 
Speak the keen anguish of my stricken breast ; 

'Twas but our summer day — how soon to sever 
The sacred bond which made our life so blest. 



THE LOVED AND LOST. 23 

The past, the past, 'tis robed in hues of brightness, 
Its records tell of years how full of bliss, 

When my young spirit in its joy and lightness, 
Dreamed not of such a fearful woe as this. 



Dost thou still love me in that far-off heaven 1 

Or art thou near me on thy spirit wings ? 
Beloved, beloved, I cannot deem it riven, 

That holy tie to which my heart yet clings : 
Hast thou not seen the tears, which, like a river, 

Swelled to the flood-gates of my breaking heart ? 
O say not thou art lost to me for ever — 

We have been linked too fondly, thus to part. 



Come, come to bless me, with thine eyes kind beaming, 

Let thy loved voice upon my fond ears thrill; 
Come, with the light of heaven around thee streaming, 

Come to the heart that weeps thee, loves thee still. 
Ay ! in its inmost core with sorrow breaking, 

Still does that love with quenchless ardor burn ; 
While a sad voice within its depths awaking, 

Hath but one echo, " O return, return." 



24 THE LOVED AND LOST. 

Hark ! on mine ear seraphic notes are ringing ! 

Your voices, loved ones, mingle in the lay; 
Ye join the hymns which angel choirs are singing, 

But, 'mid your songs, methinks I hear you say, 
" There is no darkness here, the clouds are riven, 

The veil is lifted from our earthly eyes ; 
Would' st thou recall us from the light of heaven, 

And all the ceaseless joys of Paradise ?" 



No ! no ! let mortal vision greet ye never ; 

Silence thy yearning, O repining heart ! 
Bliss, bliss unending, ye have gained for ever, 

No more in earthly sorrow to have part ; 
Joy for the free and blessed ! all unheeding 

The world, its fleeting pleasures or its care ; 
Onward my soul, be then thine eager speeding, 

To those pure realms, and join thy lost ones there. 



25 



THE MARRIAGE VOW 



" For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to 

cherish, till death us do part, according to GoS's holy ordinance ; and thereto I plight thee 

my Troth." 

Marriage Service of the Episcopal Church. 



Speak it not lightly — 'tis a holy thing, 

A bond enduring through long distant years, 

When joy o'er thine abode is hovering, 

Or when thine eye is wet with bitterest tears, 

Recorded by an angel's pen on high, 

And must be questioned in Eternity. 
4 



26 THE MARRIAGE VOW. 

Speak it not lightly — though the young and gay 
Are thronging round thee now with tones of mirth, 

Let not the holy promise of to-day 

Fade like the clouds that with the morn have birth, 

But ever bright and sacred may it be, 

Stored in the treasure-cell of memory. 



Life may not prove all sunshine — there will come 
Dark hours for all : O will ye, when the night 

Of sorrow gathers thickly round your home, 
Love as ye did, in time when calm and bright 

Seemed the sure path ye trod, untouched by care, 

And deemed the future, like the present, fair ? 



Eyes that now beam with health may yet grow dim, 
And cheeks of rose forget their early glow ; 

Languor and pain assail each active limb, 

And lay perchance some worshipped beauty low; 

Then will ye gaze upon the altered brow, 

And love as fondly, faithfully, as now ? 



THE MARRIAGE VOW. 27 

Should fortune frown on your defenceless head, 

Should storms o'ertake your barque on life's dark sea; 

Fierce tempests rend the sail so gayly spread, 
When Hope her syren strain sang joyously — 

Will ye look up, though clouds your sky o'ercast, 

And say, "together we will bide the blast?" 



Age with its silvery locks comes stealing on, 

And brings the tottering step, the furrowed cheek, 

The eye from whence each lustrous gleam hath gone, 
And the pale lip, with accents low and weak — 

Will ye then think upon your life's gay prime, 

And smiling, bid Love triumph over Time ? 



Speak it not lightly — O beware, beware ! 

'Tis no vain promise, no unmeaning word — 
Lo, men and angels list the faith ye swear, 

And by the High and Holy One 'tis heard : 
O then kneel humbly at his altar now, 
And pray for grace to keep your marriage vow. 



28 



NATURE'S TEACHING] 



i. 
Go forth with Nature — she hath many voices, 

Speaking deep lessons to the human heart, 
Where the blue streamlet in its course rejoices, 

And where amid the forest wild birds dart, 

Bearing in some sweet chorus each a part ; 
Wind, wave and blossom, tree and fragrant sod, 

The mossy hillock in its robe of green, 
The tiny bells that in the breezes nod, 

Lifting their dewy heads, broad leaves between 



nature's teachings. 29 

Each has a tone, a lesson ; man hath need 
Oft to go forth and ponder all their lore : 

In Nature's open volume he may read 

Truths of the mightiest import, and in awe 

Bow down an humble heart, an unseen power adore. 



Go to the ocean, when its giant waves 

Are lashed to fury in the tempest's hour, 
And while each tortured billow madly raves, 

Learn thou the Lord Jehovah's might and power ; 

Then turn thee to the little modest flower, 
That blooms unnoticed 'mid the gay and fair, 

Or gives its bright cheek to the summer shower, 
And read His watchful love and goodness there. 
The lilies of the field are still His care, 

And He who fixed the rolling worlds on high, 
And spread above the broad blue arch of heaven, 
And clothes it with the gorgeous hues of even, 

Looks on the meanest worm with guardian eye, 

And marks the sparrow's fall, and heeds the raven's 
cry. 



30 nature's teachings 



Go trace the waters of the sparkling rill, 

From out their rocky birthplace wildly gushing, 
Trickling in infant beauty from the hill, 

Or in the sun with diamond lustre flushing : 
Now gliding onward for awhile serene, 
Now, twisted roots and vexing rocks between, 
Then dashing on, with fiercer, wilder force, 
And swifter race along their destined course, 

To mingle with the ocean waves at last ; 
And such is Life — its Childhood's fount so fair, 

Its Youth's gay morn so joyous and so free, 
Its Manhood's hour of fearful strife and care — 
Its Age of rapid flight so quickly past — 
'Till lost amid thy depths, Eternity. 



IV. 

Go in the spring-time — when the smiling earth 
Puts on her robes of beauty for thine eye, 

And lo, she speaks of that celestial birth 

The Spirit knows in brighter worlds on high : 



nature's teachings. 31 

And when the Autumn winds all mournful sigh 
Through leafless branches, then go forth and store 
Thy mind with thoughts of death, and read once more 

The lesson of thine own mortality. 
Ay, wander forth with Nature, every glade, 
Each leafy aisle amid the forest's shade — 
The lightning's flash — the thunder's awful roll — 

The rainbow's arch — the dazzling orb of day — 

The silent moon upon her pathless way — 
All have mysterious tones to pierce the human soul. 



32 



THE DYING BOY. 



'Twas early summer, pleasant June had come, 

Flinging her coronals on every bough, 

And from the soft southwest, with perfume rife, 

The light-winged zephyrs wooed the coy young flowers. 

The brooks like playful children babbled on, 

Loosed from their icy bondage, and the birds, 

Nature's unwearied choir, tuned their clear notes, 

And in the wild-wood shades held revelry. 

Earth wore her robes of light and loveliness ; 

There were no clouds athwart the deep blue heaven, 



THE DYING BOY. 33 

Naught that might tell of darkness or decay : 
But in a cottage home, where the green vines 
Clambered about the casement, and the sun 
Peeped stealthily amid the clustering boughs, 
And the red rose gave her sweet odors forth — 
There Sorrow sat, and claimed her heritage 
In human hearts. 

Upon his lowly couch 
Lay like a broken lily, a fair child 
Just numbering then his tenth bright summer. 
His clasped hands were white as braided snow-wreaths, 
And his silken hair, once waving lightly 
In the summer's breath, now wet with death dews, 
Fell all heavily on his pure forehead. 
There was no rose-teint on his wasted cheek, 
It seemed like Parian marble — and his eye, 
The lid half drawn, shone faintly, as a star 
'Mid parting clouds. 

Beside him leaned, heart-sick 
With hope deferred, and worn with ceaseless vigils, 
She who had borne him. There was much that told 



34 THEDYINGBOY. 

Of patient suffering in her pallid face, 

For she had struggled earnestly, till faith 

Could spread its eagle pinions and soar up, 

From the cold bed where she must lay her boy, 

To his bright spirit-home. Oh, only they 

Who with a mother's speechless agony, 

Have watched the life-blood ebb, and the young cheek 

Grow pale ; counted each feeble pulse, and seen 

The full round limbs shrink in undue proportion — 

Only they, can tell a mother's sorrow, 

And may own, how hard to bow submissively, 

And say, " Thy will be done." 

Hush ! he is waking, 
The dim eyes re-open, and the white lips, 
Long sealed as though in death, find utterance. 
She had thought he slept, but when he turned 
Those soft dark orbs to hers, she saw that tears 
Were on their silken fringe, and o'er his face 
Passed a deep shade of gloom. " Mother," he said, 
And the faint tones were tremulous with grief, 
" Mother, I know how soon the time will come 
When I must die ; and as I lay but now, 



THE DYING BOY. 35 

And thought of the sweet spring and summer days 
Which, each revolving year, make the green earth 
So beautiful, and how they all would pass 
Over my grave, and I should see them not — 
I thought how sad it were to be forgotten. 
Will it be so, dear mother ? I would care 
But little if all others should forget ; 
But I was thinking, that you too, perhaps, 
When you grew older, and your tears were dried, 
And I had slumbered long, you might forget 
The timid boy who wandered by your side 
In the sweet garden paths at close of day, 
Or gathered wild flowers in the shady nooks 
Of the old pasture meadow ; he who knelt 
Each morn and eve, to lisp his childish prayers 
Low at your knee, and grasped your gentle hand, 
When the clear Sabbath bells rang joyously, 
To seek our heavenly Father's hallowed house ; 
You might forget the hour when he was wont 
To come with bounding step and gleesome call, 
From his wood rambles to your open arms. 
Will it be so, dear mother ? Must I die, 
And you forget your child ?" 



36 THE DYING BOY. 

She pressed her lips 
On his cold forehead, and her burning tears 
Fell fast with his : but when the first keen pang 
Was past, she nerved herself to comfort him, 
And told him, in her heart were images, 
And gentle names of loved and lost, which ne'er 
Could fade from her remembrance, and that he 
Would ever live among the brightest there, 
'Till death should bear her to his arms in heaven. 



37 



N OLD MAN'S REMINISCENCE. 



The writer's grandfather, an old Revolutionary officer, now on the verge of ninety-two, 
paid a visit several years since to a house in the city of Albany, in which, more than half 
a century before, he had been married. The touching narration of his feelings, as he stood 
in that time-worn apartment, suggested the following lines. 



An old man stood in a serious mood, within an ancient 

room, 
And o'er his features gathered fast, a shade of deepest 

gloom, 
While to his eye, bedimmed with age, came up the 

gushing tears, 
As memory from her hidden caves, recalled long buried 

years. 



38 AN old man's reminiscence. 

What were his thoughts that hour, which thus awakened 

many a sigh ; 
And brought the shadow o'er his brow, the moisture 

to his eye ? 
What, in that old familiar place, had power to touch 

his heart ? 
To call that cloud of sorrow up, and bid that tear-drop 

start ? 

The past ! — the past ! — how rolled the tide of Time's 

swift river back, 
While the bright rays of Youth and Love shed lustre 

on its track : 
Full fifty summer suns had shone, since on that silent 

spot, 
Had passed a scene, while life was left, could never be 

forgot. 

There had the holiest tie been formed, the marriage 

vow been given, 
And she who spoke it then with him, was now a saint 

in heaven: 
But long, long intervening years, seemed like an idle 

dream, 
As o'er his soul with glowing light, came that bright 

vision-gleam. 



AN old man's reminiscence. 39 

He stood before the holy man, with her, his youthful 

bride, 
And spoke again the plighting word, that bound him to 

her side ; 
Again he clasped the small fair hand that hour had 

made his own, — 
The vision faded — and he stood all desolate — alone. 

His youthful brow is silvered o'er with fourscore winter 

snows ; 
The faltering step, the furrowed cheek, tell of life's 

certain close : 
The plighted bride, the faithful wife, beloved so long, 

so true, 
Now sleeps beneath the burial sod, where spring the 

wild flowers blue. 

There is no music in his home — no light around his 

hearth, 
The childish forms that frolicked there, have passed 

with all their mirth ; 
Years have rolled by, the changing years, and now he 

stands alone, 
Musing upon the past — the past — hopes faded, loved 

ones gone. 



40 AN OLD MAN'S REMINISCENCE. 

Yet, aged pilgrim, dry the tear, suppress the rising 

sigh, 
Look upward, onward, to the scenes of immortality ; 
Fleet be the moments, if they bear in their resistless 

flight, 
The spirit on to that pure world of blessedness and 

light. 

There are thy loved ones gathered safe, in beauty side 

by side, 
And there the partner of thy life, thy manhood's gentle 

bride ; 
Fair as she stood in that bright hour, this day recalled 

to mind, 
A little season gone before, a better rest to find ; 
And thou, when death shall close thine eye, in heaven 

that rest will share, 
And find the tie once broken here, indissoluble there. 



n 



THE SPIRIT'S WHISPER. 



She is an angel now ! 
Weep not, dear friend, that ere the rust of time 
Had gathered o'er thy bright and priceless gem, 
A hand Divine hath riven the casket fair, 
And placed thy radiant jewel in the skies, 
To shine for ever in the Saviour's crown. 
Do thy thoughts cling to earth ? O, bid them rise 
On faith's strong wing, and in the spirit-land 
Behold thy lost one. See ! her brow is lit 
With loveliness immortal. There, no tears 
6 



42 the spirit's whisper. 

Shall dim her beauty, and no weary sighs 
Fill her young bosom with their heaviness ; 
For in that world of bliss, pain cannot enter — 
Sorrow is unknown — and O, blest bliss of all ! 
They never part in heaven. 

Dost thou catch 
The gentle whisper of that angel voice ? 
Methinks the air is stirred with viewless plumes 
That quiver round us ; while unto mine ear 
There comes a strain, like music heard in dreams, 
Or, soft and low, as an iEolian lyre, 
And this the burden of its melody : 

Sweet mother, do not weep ! 
The joy of sainted spirits now is mine ; 
I roam the fields of light, with those who keep 
Bright watch, where heaven's own golden portals shine. 

I am the babe no more, 
Who gave its feeble wailing to thine ear ; 
Free from the cumbering clay, I mount, I soar, 
Upward and onward, through a boundless sphere ! 



the spirit's whisper. 43 

O, could' st thou know how fair, 
How full of blessedness this better land, 
Thou would'st rejoice, thy child in safety there, 
Had place for ever 'mid the angel band. 

I may not tell thee all 
Its light and loveliness ; its hymns of joy 
Upon a mortal ear may never fall, 
And tongues immortal can alone employ : 

But O, 'tis sweet to be 
A sinless dweller 'mid its radiant bowers ; 
To join its seraph-songs of harmony — 
To breathe the incense of its fadeless flowers — 

To dwell no more with pain — 
To shed no tears — to feel no panting breath — 
Sweet mother, do not grieve for me again, 
I am so blest ; I bless the hand of death. 

Turn with unwavering trust 
From the green earth-bed, where my body lies ; 
Thou did'st but lay its covering in the dust, 
Thy child yet lives, will live, beyond the skies. 



44 the spirit's whisper. 

There we shall meet again : 
O yes ! believe it, meet to part no more ! 
I'll welcome thee with heaven's angelic train, 
And lead thee to the Saviour we adore. 



45 



THE PROMISED LAND 



'They thought scorn of that pleasant land, and gave no credence unto his word.' 



Scorn of that pleasant land ! 
That place of crystal founts, and palmy shade : 
Where the vine tendrils in the soft air played, 

By wandering zephyrs fanned — 
Where cooling waters, 'mid the verdant hills, 

Gushed in a thousand rills. 

That land of sunny skies — 
Of flowers and fruits luxuriant ; where the bee 
On tireless wing to every balmy tree 

Seeking its nectar, hies. 
That land of corn and wine, that place of rest 

The dews of heaven had blessed ! 



46 THE PROMISED LAND. 

Turned they once more to thee, 
Oppressing Egypt ? asked they yet again 
The tyrant's heavy yoke, the galling chain 

Of bitter slavery f 
The life of bondsmen, and their nameless graves, 

Meet sepulture for slaves ! 

Had they forgotten now 
The heavenly manna from the hand of God ? 
The Rock, from whence the Prophet's smiting rod 

Bade the clear waters flow ? 
The cloud-wrapt height of Sinai, when His word 

That trembling Prophet heard ? 

And did they doubt the hand 
That led them safely through the parted sea ? 
And could they ask a surer guide than He 

Unto the Promised Land ? 
He, who the fiery pillar reared to bless 

In the dark wilderness ? 

Read thou thyself, O man ! 
In their eventful story — far away 
Lies the fair region of eternal day; 



THE PROMISED LAND. 47 

Yet through thy little span, 

Thou would'st resign a world with glory rife, 

For the short dream of life. 

Too often thou dost turn, 
Like them of old, from Canaan's heavenly shore, 
And seek the grovelling joys of earth once more, 

And where her altars burn 
Bow down in homage, yielding unto dust 

Thy heart's unholy trust. 

Thou, too, dost turn away 
From the bright goal before thee, and pursue 
Some fleeting shadow, that must cheat thy view ; 

Some idol, which decay 
Must stamp with ruin, till the light 

Of heaven eludes thy sight. 



4S 



THE CHILD AT PRAYER. 



'Twas summer eve, the rosy light 

Had faded from the sky, 
And stars came twinkling pure and bright, 

Through the blue arch on high : 
The western breezes softly stole 

To kiss the sleeping flower, 
And kindly, o'er the wearied earth, 

Came evening's peaceful hour. 



THE CHILD AT PRAYER. 49 

There sat, within a quiet room, 

A mother, young and fair, 
And close beside her knee, there knelt 

A cherub boy in prayer : 
For every living thing he loves, 

That prayer ascends to heaven, 
While for himself, he humbly asks 

Each sin may be forgiven. 

And oft, in after years, when care 

Shall bow his spirit down, 
And the world, the cold, unfeeling world, 

Shall meet him with a frown ; 
Or when, allured from virtue's path, 

He treads a dangerous way, 
O, he will turn to this blest hour, 

When first he knelt to pray. 

And the kind hand, which then was laid 

Upon his silken hair, 
And the soft voice, which taught him first 

His simple words of prayer — 

7 



50 THE CHILD AT PRAYER. 

Will come again, with thrilling power, 

To still his pulses wild, 
And lure him back in that dark hour, 

Once more in heart, a child. 

'Tis o'er— -the last "good night," is said 

The last fond kiss is given — 
But rises not that childish prayer 

To Him who dwells in heaven ? 
Will not His ear give heed as soon 

Unto an infant's cry, 
As when a seraph bows the knee 

Before His throne on high ? 

Yes, He who marks the sparrow's fall — 

Who feeds the raven's young — 
Will listen to the simple words 

Lisped by an infant tongue ; 
And thou, blest mother, teach thy child 

Early to kneel and pray, 
'Twill prove a beacon of the past, 

To light his future way. 



51 



TO A CITY PIGEON 



And thou hast wings to bear thee far away, 

Over bright fields, and to the tree-tops high ; 
And yet thou art content with us to stay, 

'Mid heat and turmoil 'neath our sultry sky. 
Bird, hast thou no desire to wander free ? 

No wish to taste the fresh, pure summer air ? 
Where greenwood songsters fill the swaying tree, 

Would'st thou not speed thee, all their mirth to share ? 
Stooping by some clear fount to lave thy breast, 
And smooth thy plumage soft, ere flitting to thy nest ? 



52 TO A CITY PIGEON. 

What have the haunts of men to tempt thy stay ? 

Here are no forests waving in the breeze ! 
No leafy bowers, where fragrant zephyrs play : 

Within our city bounds we know not these ; 
Here, there is toil, and care, and bustling strife — 

How can'st thou linger with us, bird, so long ? 
Why in thy noisome air wear out thy life ? 

Fly to the woodland — build its bowers among ; 
Make thee a home amid the fresh green leaves — 
Quit for at least awhile, these dull and heated eaves. 



Had I the pinions folded by thy side, 

Thy glossy feathers, and the power to spring 
Upon the air, and stretch them far and wide, 

How quickly would I mount on swiftest wing : 
Resting at noonda\ r in some cool retreat, 

The abode of birds, and where the wild flowers lie 
Bent only by the hare's adventurous feet, 

And only gazed on by the fawn's soft eye : 
Where streams o'er pebbly beds are murmuring low, 
Thither I'd bear me on, their music sweet to know. 



TO A CITY PIGEON. 53 

I'd fly where'er my fancy led the way, 

Far from the noise and discord reigning here ; 
Light on green lawns, where leafy shadows play, 

And drink from bubbling fountains bright and clear : 
Seek out the scented violet's mossy bed, 

Hid from the sunbeam by a clustering vine ; 
I'd know each bank with daisies overspread, 

And at the cottage porch, where wild brier's twine, 
There would I pause, to catch the household hymn, 
Ringing in infant tones, out in the twilight dim. 



And can'st thou linger ? In its pride, the rose 

Hangs on the garden wall, to lure the bee ; 
Clad in her summer beauty, Nature glows, 

And must she smile to bless all else but thee ? 
Thou answerest, there are ties to keep thee here — 

A parent's love swells in thy gentle breast ; 
Thou can'st not leave the fluttering brood so dear, 

And hie thee out to find a greener nest ; 
Have they not wings like thee to follow on ? 
Would they not seek the land, where thou before had'st 
gone ? 



54 TO A CITY PIGEON, 

Thou wilt not leave them — gentle bird, in thee 

I read a lesson of eternal things ; 
So does the spirit, longing to be free, 

Too oft forget its birth, and fold its wings : 
We, too, have ties that bind us here below, 

And dread to break them all and soar away ; 
There is a brighter, better land, we know, 

Yet fondly cling to one which must decay ; 
We know beyond us, lies a world of bliss, 
And yet, with all its ill, we fix our hearts in this ! 



r,r, 



THOUGHT 



i. 

Boundless, illimitable, who can trace 

Thy varied journeyings through the realms of air ? 
Thou mock'st each barrier of time or space, 

And fliest on swiftest pinions every where ; 
By thee we track the past, long ages gone, 

Lost in the dark abyss of buried time, 
Or strive to pierce the future, dim, unknown, 

Or, soaring upward, seek th' eternal clime : 
We revel 'mid the stars, in the high dome 

Of God's all glorious temple richly spread, 
Make 'mid their shining hosts the spirit's home, 

Among their living lights where seraphs tread ; 
Hold our free course unchecked, till lost, amazed, 
We sink again to earth, with our bright pathway dazed. 



56 THOUGHT. 

II. 

But thou hast earthly rovings, boundless Thought ! 

O'er the wide world thine eager wing is flying, 

To vine-clad realms, where fragrant winds are sighing ; 
To fairy-haunted grove, or storied grot, 
Thither thou lead'st us : hoary mountains piled 

High in the clouds, broad lakes, and rivers fair, 
And green savannas stretching vast and wild — 

We know them all, by thee borne swiftly there. 
The lava-buried cities, ancient Rome, 

Judea's queen, so honored, so debased, 
Where He, the Man of Grief, vouchsafed to come, 

And through her streets His path of sorrow traced — 
To these we speed us, what can stay thy flight 
Ethereal essence ! — swift as flash of light ? 



1 1 i. 
And yet a power more dear is thine, O Thought ! 

By thee, long-parted friends together meet, 
Though seas divide them, by thy magic brought 

In close companionship again ! how sweet 



THOUGHT. 57 

To speak kind words of sympathy, once more 

To linger spell-bound on some long-loved face, 

Again each faded lineament retrace, 
Till faithful memory all their charms restore ! 
The lonely mother at her cottage hearth, 

Shudders to hear the storm go rushing past ; 
And as in fitful and demoniac mirth, 

Shrieks forth in trumpet-tones the maddened blast — 
She sees in thought, while roll the blackened clouds, 
Her sea-boy's form, rocked in the spray-wreathed 
shrouds. 



58 



TASSU'S CROWN 



"It was resolved, that the greatest living poet of Italy should be crowned with the laurel 
in the imperial city, as Petrarch had been more than two hundred and fifty years before- 
The decree to that effect was passed by the Pope and the Senate; but ere the day of triumph 
came, Tasso was seized with an illness, which he instantly felt would be mortal. At his own 
request, he was immediately conveyed to the neighbouring- Monastery of St. Onofario, where, 
surrounded by the consolations of that faith which had been through life his constant sup- 
port, he patiently awaited what he firmly believed would be the issue of his malady. He 
expired in the arms of Cardinal Ciuthio Aldobrandini. The Cardinal had brought him the 
Pope's benediction ; on receiving which, he exclaimed, ' This is the crown with which I hope 
to be crowned, not as a poet in the capital, but with the glory of the blessed iu heaven.' " 



Within a dim monastic pile 

The gifted poet lies — 
Haste ! — bring the bright triumphal crown, 

The victor's glorious prize : 
Not here should be his resting place, 

Fame beckons him away, 
With laurel wreath his brow to grace 

Upon no distant day. 



TASSIl's CROWM. 59 

No distant clay ! — Alas ! for him 

Vainly the leaves are twined — 
The pulse beats low, the eye grows dim. 

Where reason sat enshrined : 
Disease is preying on his frame, 

And death has paled his brow - — 
To the dread despot's mighty power 

He bends a victim now. 

They bear a blessing to his couch, 

It wakes that death-like trance, 
And o'er the dying poet's soul 

Celestial visions glance : 
Hope lights the pathway to the tomb, 

Faith speaks of sin forgiven — 
" Be this," he cried, " my better crown, 

Joy with the blessed in heaven. 

" Not earthly honors shall I win, 

Nor laurel wreath shall wear, 
But bending with the cherubim, 

In adoration there — 



60 TASSO. 'S CROWN. 

Before Jehovah's throne — with them 
Shall gain a crown of light, 

A fair, eternal diadem, 

Nor time, nor change can blight. 

" Away, away, each thought of earth, 

Be mine to seek the sky — 
Come, blessed hour, and bring the birth 

Of immortality ; 
Not here, not here, my timeless lyre, 

Thy notes again shall swell ; 
A golden harp, with strings of fire, 

Emmanuel's praise shall tell. 

" What now, the bard's undying fame ? 

What, but an idle breath ! 
I yield the glory of a name 

To thj dominion, death. 
Not with thy lofty sons, O Rome, 

The garland shall I wear — 
A crown of pure, unfading light 

In heaven, awaits 'me there. 



TASSO S CROWN. 61 

" Then earth, farewell; the fevered dreams 

Which wild ambition gave, 
Have faded like the sunset gleams 

That gild the distant wave ; 
But fairer visions fill my breast, 

And cheer my closing eye — 
For angels, pointing to my rest, 

Smile on me as I die." 

So passed the gifted one, whose lay 

Hallowed Italia' s clime — 
Serenely, joyously away, 

Just in his manhood's prime : 
Exchanged the poet's wreath of fame, 

The bard's entrancing lyre, 
For brighter crowns, and holier lays, 

With heaven's angelic choir. 



62 



TUB RETURN OF SUMMER. 



I turned from all she brought, to all .she eouhl not bring." 

Childk Haiiold. 



Sweet summer ! glorious summer ! 

Thy footsteps once again 
Are on the green delighted earth, 

And o'er the sounding main ; 
Thy light is on the wilderness, 

Thy glory in the sky, 
And thy richly varied melodies 

Are ever floating by ; 



T HE RETURN O V S U M M E R . 63 

And out upon the ocean 

Go the ships all bounding free, 
With thy gales to bear them onward, 

O'er the bright rejoicing sea. 

II. 

There are voices, many voices, 

That ever wake with thee — 
The laughter of the mountain streams, 

The music of the bee ; 
The humming of bright insect wings 

Amid the leafy trees, 
And the softly breathing whispers 

Of the perfume-laden breeze — 
And the merry, merry measures 

Of the feathered songsters gay, 
In the meadows and the woodlands, 

Far away — far away ! 

in. 

Thou art roving on the mountains, 

And thy voice is in the dells, 
By the sheen of silvery fountains, 

Where the water-spirit dwells ; 



G4 



THE RETURN OF SUMMER. 

Where the wild flowers sweet are blushing, 

In many a quiet nook, 
And the starry moss lies gleaming 

By the softly-singing brook ; 
And gemmed with diamond dew-drops, 

The garden blossoms stand, 
In their robes of grace and beauty 

O'er all the pleasant land. 



IV. 

Thou art roving on the mountains ! 

But the pent-up city child, 
Amid his toil and weariness, 

With thee hath seldom smiled ; 
He dreameth of thy greenwood shades, 

Where, 'neath its roof of leaves 
The summer bird, more blest than he, 

Its airy fabric weaves ; 
He dreameth of thy solitudes, 

And haply sighs to be 
But for one hour, one blessed hour, 

On the breezy hills with thee. 



THE RETURN OF SUMMER. G5 



Sweet summer ! joyous summer ! 

Unto every living thing 
Thou art bearing light and gladness 

On thy richly freighted wing ; 
Thy gifts of bloom are round me, 

And fair thine azure skies, 
Yet to me thou bring'st, Oh ! Summer fair ! 

But tender memories : 
Loved voices, whose sweet music 

A spell around me cast ; 
Sweet Summer ! glorious Summer ! 

Bring me back the past, the past. 



I am musing on the brightness 

That has faded from my view, 
And hopes which soared like bright-winged birds, 

In skies for ever blue ; 
For clouds have dimmed my vision, 

And sadness filled mine eye ; 



66 THE RETURN OF SUMMER. 

And vainly, Oh ! how vainly, 
Do thy golden moments fly ; 

And in thy sunny gladness 
I can bear no willing part ; 

Oh ! give me back, thou joyous time, 
The summer of the heart ! 



67 



KEEPSAKES 



"I have been looking- over a box of keepsakes. Each little trinket had a voice which 
spoke to me of the Past." 

Private Letter. 



A ring — a simple band of pearl — 

And yet the image fair 
Of a true-hearted, merry girl, 

With step as free as air, 
And eye all bright as evening's star, 

These faded pearls recall — 
The earliest playmate of my love, 

And fairest of them all : 
Around a pure, unclouded brow, 
Her silken tresses gaily flow, 



68 KEEPSAKES. 

And her sweet tones of youthful glee 
Come ringing as they did to me 
Long years ago, ere Care or Time 
Had stolen the freshness of her prime. 

We stood together 'neath the stars, — 

It was a night of June — 
And listened to the far-off voice 

Of a waterfall in tune ; 
And we spoke of old, familiar things 

That happened long before — 
Of dear companions scattered wide, 

Whom we should meet no more ; 
And she said, lest I should e'er forget 

The friend of Life's young day — 
The holly walk where first we met, 

So shy, and then so gay — 
The pleasant hours by field and stream 

That we had passed together, 
When the world seemed just like fairy land, 

And Life like Summer weather — 
This ring should on my finger be 
A talisman of memory, 



KEEPSAKE 



69 



To waken thoughts of love and her 
When she might be a wanderer 
Far, far from all we looked on then ; 

Away from those long prized so dearly, 
Whom she might never see again, 

Though she would love them, Oh sincerely! 
Then from her hand the gift she drew, 

And placed the glittering pledge on mine — 
Hush ! 'twas but Fancy's whispered tone : 

Sweet friend, it is not thine ! 
Thou art beyond the surging sea, 

A thousand leagues away, 
But this band of pearl hath called thee back 

Unto my heart to-day, 
The same fair thing of light and glee 
That lives within my memory. 

A braid of hair : the hand which gave 

This golden tress, had nought beside ; 

Hers were no jewels of the wave, 

No radiant gems, no high-born pride ; 

Unskilled in art, unknown to fame, 

Of lowly birth and humble name — 



70 KEEPSAKES. 

A simple cottage maid ; 
Yet well I loved the gentle child ! 
Like some fair floweret of the wild 
Untrained, yet fragrant still, she smiled, 

In native grace arrayed. 

I long had known sweet Amy Lee, 
As blithe as wild-bird, or as bee, 
As meek as are the lilies white, 
Which hide their petals from the light 

Beneath their leaves of green ; 
As gentle as the young gazelle — 
So fragile, yet beloved so well — 
She seemed a thing that might not dwell 

Where storms had ever been. 
Twelve summers only had she known — 

How swift their course was run ! 
So gaily, gladly had they flown, 

We deemed them scarce begun. 
Then came the blight upon our flower : 

Consumption's fatal breath 
Had doomed our rose-bud of an hour 

To bend its head in death : 



KEEPSAKES. 71 

And well she knew her fate must be 

To bid farewell to stream and tree, 

To mossy bank, to sylvan dell, 

To woodpaths that she loved so well, 

To bird and bud, to earth and sky, 

Then turn from all their charms — and die. 

'Twas sad to part; yet well she knew 

Of that bright world beyond her view — 

Of those unfading flowers, that blow 

Where pure, untroubled waters flow : 

And she had gazed, with Faith's keen eye, 

Till doubt was changed to ecstacy, 

And longed to seek those regions fair, 

And find eternal spring-time there. 

One morn I sought her cottage-door, 
The old green woodbine, clambering o'er, 
Checkered the sunshine on the floor, 

With sweets perfumed the air : 
I sat beside the dying child, 
And watched how tranquilly she smiled — 

How calm her features were : 
Then from her head she bade me take, 



72 KEEPSAKES. 

And keep it for poor Amy's sake, 

This tress of golden hair : 
That when long years had rolled o'er me, 
And she was sleeping peacefully, 
Its shining threads perhaps might tell 
Of one who loved me passing well. 
She died upon that summer morn — 

I marked her fleeting breath, 
And caught her last faint sigh, and saw 

Her features fixed in death ! 
And I have kept the braid of hair, 
In memory of one so fair : 
Its glossy folds still speak to me 
The gentle name of Amy Lee ! 

A broken chain — its severed links 

Are where ? in some strange land they He ; 
But he who holds them hath, methinks, 

A day-dream when they meet his eye : 
He turns in thought, half musing then, 

Unto one bright, autumnal even, 
When moonbeams lit our native glen, 

And stars were thickly set in heaven, 



KEEPSAKES. 73 

And we together stood beneath 

The old home porch, and, half in jest, 
He played the lover, kneeling low, 

And a deep passion then confessed : 
And when I smiled, and said I knew 

His ardent love would yield to time, 
He broke this golden chain in two, 

And asked, when in a foreign clime 
'Twas his to linger, sad and lone, 
That I would sometimes gaze upon 
Its glittering circles, and believe 
His was no heart that could deceive. 
We parted, as warm friends would part, 

And he went o'er the tossing main ;• 
Another won that faithful heart, 

And he forgot the broken chain : 
And now he may not think of me, 
Save its bright remnant he should see. 

A leaf — a seal — a faded flower — 

Each have a different tale, 
And each recall some pleasant hour, 

By streamlet, wood or vale, 
10 



74 KEEPSAKES. 

This bracelet clasped a lovely arm ; 
This heart of topaz hath a charm 

Of other days for me ; 
Some fair companion's merry glance, 
My partner in the mazy dance, 

In this old broach I see ; 
And this small volume's sacred lore 
Recalls a counsellor of yore, 
Whose faithful warnings, heard no more, 

Yet live in memory. 

Oh, ye have voices for mine ear, 

Ye silent things ! none else can hear ; 

Each little offering hath for me 

A sweet, a separate history : 

A tale of Love, or Joy, or Grief — 

An hour of gladness, bright and brief; 

And those long dead, or far away, 

Have lived and smiled for me to-day ! 



75 



THE SCULPTOR'S DREAM OF HOME, 



He stood alone, amid the magic forms 

His chisel's touch had wakened. There were shapes 

Of rare and most exceeding loveliness ; 

And the cold marble seemed instinct with life, 

So vividly had his high art called back 

The buried past, and peopled that dim spot 

With the bright creatures of poetic thought. 

He stood alone, a stranger. His loved home, 

Far o'er the sea, in the fair western world, 

Lay in its untold beauty. Mountain heights 



76 the sculptor's dream op home. 

Reared their blue summits to the summer heaven ; 
Broad prairie lands, where bounds the buffalo, 
Still stretched, unmeasured by the gazer's eye ; 
And the far-reaching rivers, deep and strong, 
Linked shining lakes with ocean. — But for him, 
Though fair as Eden were its grassy vales, 
Its wooded heights, and rush of crystal waves, 
His spirit's eager wing sought other climes. 
A restless craving for the beautiful 
In art, lured him from home and country : 
Fame's silver trumpet rang upon his ear — 
Her laurel wreath hung o'er him in the clouds, 
And for the deathless garland burned his brow. 
Italy ! thrice glorious Italy ! 
The cradle of young Genius, nurse of Art, 
Seemed as the Promised Land, and thither roamed 
His willing feet. 

And the bright goal was won ! 
Fame numbered him among her noblest sons, 
And 'neath his touch, shapes of unearthly beauty, 
Such as in dreams ethereal only dwell, 
Or in the poet's fancy start to life, 



THE SCULPTOR'S DREAM OF HOME. 77 

Sprang from the senseless marble. Men looked on, 
And marvelled at his power ; his name was heard 
In the high halls of great and god-like Art, 
And his the hour of triumph — lo, his brow- 
Wore the green wreath he sighed for ; but there came 
To dim the sunlight of that glorious morn, 
A heartsick yearning for his early home, 
And the fond playmate of his boyhood years. 
Fame could not fill the places of the lost — 
Her clarion music, proud although it be, 
Was discord to the tones of tenderness 
His wearied spirit asked, yet asked in vain. 

He is alone — but thought hath borne him on, 
'Till the dim studio seems a greenwood shade, 
'Neath the blue skies of his own native land. 
The gush of rills, the song of summer birds, 
And the low hum of busy insect wings, 
Break on the stillness of the summer day : 
A wild, sweet laugh, the echo of glad thoughts, 
Comes to his ear — his gentle sister's voice 
Calls him to join her rambles, and they roam 
Through the cool arches of the quiet wood, 



78 the sculptor's dream of home. 

Till the first star hath risen, and amid 

The dark green boughs is flashing, like a gem, 

The fire-fly's light. 

Theirs is the converse sweet 
Of souls congenial, for each youthful heart 
Hath in its hidden depths a perfect world 
Of poetry, and a most subtle sense 
Of all things beautiful in Nature. She 
Hath some rare fancy floating through her brain, 
And whispers in his ear that she hath clothed 
A fairy legend in bewitching rhyme ; while he, 
Catching the glories of a sunset sky, 
Tells, how in Italy the eve is bright 
"With hues Italian skies can only know. 
Oh ! blessed vision ! linger, linger still, 
Cheer the lone heart, that pines for home once more, 
And bear the exile back on memory's wing, 
To the dear haunts of boyhood. 

Lo ! a step 
Hath roused him from his dream ; the greenwood shades 
Have vanished, and the arches of the wood 



THE SCULPTOR'S DREAM OF HOME. 79 

Give place to time-stained walls of massive stone : 

The low, sweet murmur of his sister's voice 

Hath passed, like music from the wind-harp's string ; 

Far o'er the booming billow lies his home, 

And he is in his studio — alone. 



SO 



TO ES TELLE. 



" No, the eye of friendship may not read 

All that the heart contains, 
Its wealth of love, its tenderness, 

Its pleasures, and its pains. 

Estelle. 



And say' st thou so, my gentle friend ? 

And dost thou deem, indeed, 
Thy poet-heart a secret page, 

Which none beside may read ? 
It may be so with many a one 

Who idly scans the leaf, 
They may not guess how pure its joy, 

How deep its inmost grief, — 



TO ESTELLE. 

They may not dream its love must burn 

An ever quenchless flame, 
How oft a chord within thy breast 

May vibrate at a name, — ■ 
But ah ! a sybil's power is mine, 

To read its hidden lore ; 
And the witching spell of poetry 

Can a poet's heart explore. 

I know thou lov'st the beautiful, 

In earth, and air, and sea, 
The sunset clouds, as they robe the west 

In a gorgeous drapery ; 
The lurid glare of the lightning's flash, 

And the meteor's path of light ; 
The silver moon, and the quiet stars, 

In the holy hours of night. 

The ocean waves have a voice for thee, 
And the gentle woodland streams, 

And they haunt thy heart with their melody, 
In the far-off land of dreams ; 
11 



81 



82 TOESTELLE. 

The whispering winds in the forest boughs, 

Have for thee a mystic tone, 
And the green arcades, and the leafy glades, 

Speak to thy heart alone. 

Thou lovest the wild bird's mellow note, 

When he carols his morning hymn, 
And the dew-drop that lies on the violet's breast, 

Or jewels the lily's brim : 
Thou weavest a tissue all fair and bright, 

To color the humblest things, 
For a world lies hidden within thy heart, 

Where ever sweet fancy springs ; 
A world, where dwelleth in rainbow hues 

The thoughts that in heaven have birth ; 
Which hover o'er, like the fabled bird, * 

But touch not this clouded earth. 

Thou lovest the summer, that gaily flings 
Green wreaths upon every bough, 

* Tho Humn, which is said to fly above, but ncvor to touch the earth. 



TO ESTELLE. 



And I know thou lovest the glittering gems 

That circle the Frost-king's brow: 
The insect that floats on the perfumed gale, 

Were a theme for many an hour, 
For thou see'st its Maker's mighty hand 

In the tiniest leaf or flower j 
I know thou readest a lesson pure, 

In each blossom that decks the sod, 
And lookest up with a trusting heart, 

Through Nature, to Nature's God. 

But deeper things, far deeper things, 

Lie hid in that heart of thine, 
Like jewels that sleep in their earthy beds, 

Low down in the secret mine : 
The hoarded wealth of affections pure, 

A child, and a sister's love, — 
And the Christian hope, that will light thy way, 

To a glorious world above : 
And Oh ! there are tender memories, 

Of the lost and lovely there, 
That come when the busy world is still, 

And thou hast knelt down in prayer : 



84 TO ESTELLE. 

That come o'er thy heart in the holy hush 

Of the solemn midnight, lone, 
And the by-gone years, and the parted friends, 

Are once again thine own. 

Then say, fair friend, have I read aright 

Thy heart's mysterious page ? 
Hath my sybil power, and witching spell, 
Unlocked the door of that holy cell, 
Where Love, with his shining wings, doth dwell, 

And Thought hath his golden cage ? 
Ah ! deem not thou the prying eye, 

To intrude in that spot, would dare, 
I did but look in my own fond heart, 

And thine was reflected there. 



S5 



REMEMBRANCE 



" To live in hearts we leave behind, 
Is not to die." 

Campbell. 



Do not forget me — I would not my name 
As a strange language, to your ears became, 
But seldom uttered, only heard with sighs, 
As harp-string to the moaning wind replies, 
Not so, not so ! 

Speak of me, when the summer day is bright 
With glorious sunbeams, and the golden light 
Streams through the lattice of my own green bower 
Let me be there in that rejoicing hour 

At least in name. 



S6 



REMEMBRANCE. 



Speak of me, when the twilight's purple haze 
Shuts each fair prospect from your ardent gaze, 
And turning to the quiet joys of home, 
Fond memories of departed dear ones come 
To stir the heart. 

Speak of me, when in heaven's blue arch afar, 
Shines forth in glory each effulgent star ; 
Say how I loved their lustre, that my name 
May ever dwell amid their hosts of flame 

To meet your eyes. 

Speak of me, when my own sweet garden rose, 
On slender stem, in moss-clad beauty blows : 
I would be linked with all the flowers that bloom, 
Till ye might half forget the cold, dark tomb, 
Where I must lie. 

Speak of me, when around the winter's hearth, 
Young hearts are cheerful with the season's mirth, 
And strike the soft guitar I love so well, 
And let its chords in some old ballad tell 
A tale of me. 



REMEMBRANCE. 87 

Speak of me not in sorrow, for ye know- 
To what calm skies and gentle streams I go ; 
To flowers that fade not, through eternal Spring, 
All robed in light, to wear an angel's wing, 
An angel's crown. 

Speak of me, then, with gladness, not with tears ; 
For when have flitted by a few short years, 
Ye too will pass from earthly care and pain, 
And we shall meet all joyfully again, 

No more to part. 



ss 



LAMENT OF AGE FOR BOYHOOD 



My boyhood ! Oh ! my boyhood ! 

Give me back the blessed time, 
When the heart so gay and careless, 

And the light-winged hours were mine ; 
Give me back the bounding footstep, — 

Give me back the merry tone, — 
And the laugh that rang so lightly, 

Ere those golden hours had flown. 



LAMENT OF AGE FOR BOYHOOD. 89 

Give me back but for a moment, 

Those happy, happy days ! 
For the path we tread in manhood, 

Is a dim, bewildering maze ; 
The flowers that bloom the fairest, 

Are the earliest to decay ; 
And the joys we prize the dearest, 

Are the first to pass away. 

But Oh ! the hours of boyhood 

Fleet by on pinion's fair ; 
And the sunshine of untroubled hearts 

Makes constant summer there : 
For care is but a phantom shade, 

To bosoms light and gay ; 
And sorrow comes, but in the cloud 

That dims a holyday. 

Oh ! gaily flew the butterfly 

I chased across the lea ; 
And but to catch the fluttering thing, 

Was joy enough for me, — 
12 



90 LAMENT OF AGE FOR BOYHOOP. 

Alas ! since then, I've followed far 

Full many a painted toy ; 
And found it like the gilded moth 

That lured the truant boy. 

Oh ! give me back my boyhood ! 

Let me feel the keen delight 
Of a kite upon the summer gale, 

Like an eagle in its flight, — 
The bounding ball, the flying race, 

The arrow on the wing — 
The old man's heart can vibrate still 

If memory touch the string. 

I see the old green meadows, 

Where of yore I used to stray; 
They have lost methinks their verdure, 

And my play-mates — where are they ? 
The grass is green o'er many a brow, 

That wore no shadow then — 
And the rest, have changed from merry boys, 

To strange, cold-hearted men. 



LAMENT OP AGE FOR BOYHOOD. 91 

Oh ! give me back the feelings 

Of my early by-gone years ! 
Ere my heart had throbbed with sorrow, 

Or mine eye been dimmed with tears ; 
I would forget each present scene, 

And know again the joy 
That blessed me in the golden days, 

When I was but a boy. 



92 



AN AUTUMN THOUGHT. 



Methinks I never saw the autumn woods 

So beautiful as now. They have put on 

Their rainbow coloured garments hastily, 

As from his icy palace in the North, 

With a stern eye upon the shrinking flowers, 

And hoarsely heralding the coming cold, 

The Frost King hurries ; and like courtiers, soon 

Donned each their robes of state, at his approach. 



AN AUTUMN THOUGHT. 93 

How brightly the October sunlight gleams 
Over the changing forest. See ! tall shafts 
Of opal, or of amber, rise around, 
Like pillars of a genii's banquet hall ; 
With a fair dome of sapphire over them, 
Exceeding beautiful ! 

For me they wear, 
These frost-touched forest leaves of varied hue, 
A beauty which the summer yieldeth not, 
Despite its wealth of flowers. I love thee, June ! 
With thy soft breath, and deeply azure skies, 
And purple twilight hours ; but more I love 
A noon-tide ramble in the Autumn woods, 
When through the half-stript branches streams the sun, 
And 'neath our feet the dry leaves rustle ; 
When answering echo mocks the sportsman's gun, 
And swift across our path the squirrel springs, 
Or nimble-footed hare. The Autumn gales 
Have a reviving influence, and awake 
A thought of earlier hours, when there seemed 
No shadow in the sunshine, and the streams 



94 AN AUTUMN THOUGHT. 

Were ever musical — and far away 

From half conned lessons, with a chosen few, 

We sought the falling nuts, and joyfully 

Broke like a bubbling fountain's silvery tone, 

The merry laugh from young and careless hearts ; 

And life seemed all as full of happiness, 

As did that bright day in the Autumn woods. 



95 



THE DYING WIFE TO HER HUSBAND. 



They tell me life is waning fast, 

And Death's dark wing unfurled, 
Will bear my spirit soon from earth, 

Unto an unknown world : 
I feel, beloved, it must be so, — 

I feel that even now 
His hand is on my fluttering heart, 

His shadow o'er my brow. 



96 THE DYING WIFE TO HER HUSBAND 

How shall I leave thee ? — how resign 

Thy tenderness and care ? 
The pressure of thy clasping hand, 

Thy blessing, and thy prayer ? 
Together we have tasted joy, 

Together wept in ill, 
And the love that was so bright in bliss, 

In grief was brighter still. 

Wilt thou not miss me from thy side 

When twilight's hour hath come ? 
Will it not seem a desert place, 

The paradise of home ? 
Then, gather close with brooding love 

Our children round thy knee, 
And wipe with tenderest hand the tears 

Which they will shed for me. 

And soothe each little throbbing heart 

That asks for me in vain, 
And say, that in the far-off heaven 

Their mother lives again ; 



THE DYING WIFE TO HEK HUSBAND. 97 

Link not my name with thoughts of death, 

But point them to the sky, 
And tell them, in the "Better Land" 

They neither weep nor die. 

Go with them to their lonely couch 

At evening's silent close, 
And softly press each pillowed cheek, 

And hush them to repose ; 
Or bid them kneel with clasped hands 

To lisp their evening prayer ; 
Thou must unite a father's love, 

With all a mother's care. 

A mother's care ! a mother's love ! 

And must they never know 
How deeply in her "heart of hearts" 

A mother's love may glow? 
Will they yet bloom in girlhood fair, 

While she who gave them birth 
Lies all forgotten far away, 

In one lone spot of earth ? 
13 



98 THE DYING WIPE TO HER HUSBAND, 

Forgotten ! no, beloved one, no ! 

Thou wilt remember still 
The being who hath shared thy lot 

Alike in good or ill ; 
Thou wilt remember all her love, 

With faithful, fond regret ; 
And but the faults she could not hide, 

Thy heart will e'er forget. 

And thou wilt come to that lone spot 

Where the green willow waves, 
And lead our children's tiny feet 

Among the quiet graves ; 
And read for them the sculptured stone — 

Brief record of my life — 
Then say how faithfully I loved, 

As mother, and as wife. 

How can I say farewell to thee ? 

How mark thy bitter tears ? 
Look up, beloved, we only part 

For a few fleeting years ; 



THE DYING WIFE TO HER HUSBAND. 99 

They will roll o'er thy darkened path, 

Swiftly as shadows flee, 
And in a world of holier love 

Will our blest meeting be. 



100 



THE LAND OP JOY 



'The inhabitants of this country (Zinge) are never afflicted with sadness or melancholy. 

Notes to Lalla Rookh. 



Bear me to that blest place ! 
That home of cheerful hearts and tearless eyes ; 

Whereon no shadow lies, 
And where no sorrow leaves its wonted trace. 

This is a land of care ! 
Tears dim the eye, and cheeks are early pale : 

Grief is on every gale ; — 
But that bright shore — have they no sorrow there ? 



THE LAND OP JOY. 101 

Do they not mourn the dead ? 
Do not the lovely pass like ours away ? 

Do they not weep by day, 
And through the night toss on a sleepless bed ? 

Do they not part for years, 
As we do, from the beings loved the best? 

And can they, do they rest, 
With no vain longings, no dark bitter fears ? 

Are they not called to keep 
Long weary vigils by the couch of pain ? 

Have they ne'er watched in vain 
For th' awakening from that dreamless sleep ? 

Oh ! Are they so much blest ! 
While here we combat with unending care ? 

Then bear me, bear me there — 
Give me in that bright land, a home, a rest ! 

Imaginary spot ! 
There cannot be on earth such place of peace, 

Where joys can ne'er decrease, 
Where cares, and tears, and sorrows, enter not ! 



102 THE LAND OF JOY. 

Be still, then, panting heart ! 
Forbear thy longing for such blest abode, 

And struggle on, till God 
Shall bid thee to a better rest depart. 



103 



THE SUMMER RAIN. 



The Summer rain, the Summer rain ! 

It is streaming down to the earth again ; 

The hills are green where the bright drops lie, 

And hid are the bee and the butterfly : 

The pools are filled, and the streamlets flow 

O'er pebbly beds, with their music low : 

And the lily is lifting her chalice fair, 

And the red-rose swings in the freshened air, 

And flower-cups bend to the blessed rain, 

That is streaming down to the earth again. 



104 THE SUMMER RAIN. 

It bringeth joy to a thousand things, 
The thirsty herbage to meet it springs ; 
The corn is drinking the blessed draught, 
And the oak of the forest its stream hath quaffed, 
And the light leaves laugh, as its silvery tide, 
Like a gift of beauty, falls far and wide ; 
The smallest flower, in the deepest glen, 
That never bloomed for the eye of men — 
The gayest plant in the garden's bound — 
The broadest bough in the greenwood found — 
Each blade of grass, and each stately tree, 
Drinketh the rain-drops joyfully. 



What doth it image — the Summer rain, 
When clouds are spread over earth again ? 
And softly on meadow, and hill, and grove, 
It comes like a voice from the world above ? 
It speaks of the Spirit's holy power 
On the human heart in affliction's hour; 
So doth it fall, when the heart is sere, 
With the parching cares of this lower sphere ; 



THE SUMMER RAIN. 105 

So doth it fall, when the smiling sky 

Is dim with the clouds of adversity ; — ■ 

So doth it soften the stony breast, 

As the glittering drops upon earth are pressed ; 

'Till, as incense sweet after Summer rain, 

The soul will rise towards heaven again. 



14 



10G 



ELEGIAC. 



N MEMORY O 



Why should we mourn thee ? 
See, the captive bird 
Hath burst its prison bar, and wanders free 
Through the clear ether, till no more is heard 

Its minstrelsy. 

Should we deplore its flight, 
As up the blue expanse with quivering wings 

Exultingly it springs, 
Spreading its pinions toward the throne of light, 
And leaving far behind, the land of chains and night ? 



ELEGIAC. 107 

Why should we mourn thee ? 
When the exile lone, 
Homeward returning, from afar espies 
His cot's low roof with verdure overgrown, 
'Mid the green foliage where embowered it lies ; 
And pressing forward with a bounding heart 
And quickened footstep, gains the destined spot — 
From its loved shelter could we say, Depart, 
And seek again the pilgrim's weary lot — 
Each hardship o'er, each peril now forgot ? 



Why should we mourn thee V 
Gifted one, thy lyre 
Gave the sweet echoes of thy soul's warm lay : 
Strings such as angels sweep, the golden wire 
That vibrates to a seraph's touch of fire ; 

The holy, holy song 

Immortal lips prolong ; 
These were thy high aspirings, and thy robe of clay, 
Bound but thy spirit-wings, which longed to soar away. 



108 ELEGIAC. 

Why should we mourn thee ? 

In thy bright abode 
Pain is unknown, and sorrow hath no place, 
The heritage alone of those who trace 

Life's thorny road. 
'Tis for ourselves we weep, 

Poor earth-bound prisoners still, 
On our toilsome way and steep, 

With our load of care and ill ; 
But for thee, sweet songstress, thee ! 

Be our purest praises given, 
Like the captive bird made free ; 
Like the exile, joyously, 

Thou hast gained thy home in heaven, 
And thine earthly lyre, 
Though quenched its fire, 
Will echo again, 'mid the angel choir. 



109 



NIGHT 



Draw down thy misty curtains, " solemn night," 
Dim the fierce fires which still illume the west ; 

While stars look down with sweet though distant light, 
Bring to each weary thing its hour of rest : 
Sleep to the little song-bird in its nest, 

Dew to young blossoms, bending on the tree ; 

Call home, on busy wing, the housewife bee, 
And seal up infant eyes, in fond arms pressed. 

Be thine, to soothe earth's worn and weary child, 
With hours of sweet and undisturbed repose — 
Still human hearts, that beat with wants and woes, 

And lull a thousand griefs ; physician mild ! 

The couch of pain with healthful visions bless, 

And cure all ills in deep forgetfulness. 



110 



THE DIAMOND OF THE DESERT. 



"It is called in the Arabic language," answered the Saracen, "by a name which signifies, 

the ' Diamond of the Desert.' " 

Scott. 



Slowly o'er parched and dreary plains, 

Fainting beneath the solar ray ; 
While hope of rescue scarce remains, 

The weary pilgrim takes his way. 
Around him, barren deserts lie, 
Above him, bends a burning sky, 
Or the dread Simoon's fatal breath, 
Sweeps o'er his pathway, fraught with death. 



THE DIAMOND OP THE DESERT. Ill 

But now, to cheer his anxious eye, 

Appears one little spot of green, 
Sole vestige of fertility, 

Amid that desolated scene. 
And oh ! how grateful none can know, 
Is the cool fountain's silver flow, 
Which brightly beams to cheer and bless, 
In that wild waste of barrenness. 

To rest beside the bubbling fount, 

Quaffing its waters as they glide, 
And dangers of the way recount 

To fellow pilgrims by his side ; 
How shall the wanderer leave its brink ? 
He stoops again, — again, — to drink, 
And bears through all his desert way, 
The memory of that fountain's play. 

So, 'mid the arid wastes of life, 

Where panting pilgrims onward roam, 

Wearied with earth, its toil, its strife, 
Sighing to find some surer home ; — 



112 THE DIAMOND OF THE DESERT, 

Religion, like the silver wave, 
Pours its pure stream to bless and save ; 
And lies, like that bright fountain clear, 
The " Diamond of the Desert " here. 

And ye who vainly sigh for rest, 

Who thirst for purer streams of joy — 
Here, with the living waters blessed, 
Drink, deeply drink, without alloy. 
Sparkling with light its waves flow on, 
Refreshing all they gleam upon, 
And he who tastes the healing tide, 
Will ask no other fount beside. 



113 



OUR REST. 



" This is not your rest, it is polluted." 



This is not our rest — 'tis a region of care, 

A land of perplexities, dangers, and fears, 
And hearts that are beating with rapture, may share 

An hour of transport, with bitterest tears : 
And when we look round on life's pathway of ill, 

Although it may sometimes seem happy and blest, 
Back, back to our bosoms, conviction will thrill, 

And everything teach us, this is not our rest. 
15 



114 O U R K E. S T . 

This is not our rest — for the dark wing of grief, 

May shadow the sunlight that beamed o'er our home, 
And some long cherished idol, like autumn's pale leaf, 

Go down to the grave in its beauty and bloom : 
Or those whom we trusted would never betray ; 

And hearts that we prized as the truest and best, 
Grow cold and forgetful, and friendship decay 

We thought most undying — this is not our rest ! 

This is not our rest — youthful dreamer, awake ! 

Believe not that here, thy best moments are given : 
The hopes that are brightest will soonest forsake, — 

Earth holds not a bliss that should lure thee from heaven : 
The song may resound, and the festal be gay, 

And beauty seem flattered, or idly caressed : 
But the world and its fashion are passing away — 

Awake, youthful dreamer, this is not thy rest ! 

This is not thy rest — though a voice may be near, 
In some tranquil hour, to whisper of peace ; 

To promise that life shall be sunny and clear, 
And all the wild storms of adversity cease ; 



115 



That pleasure shall wait on thy steps evermore, — 
And thou wilt be always as happy and blest, — 
'Tis a voice that hath cheated fond bosoms before, 
O trust not the syren, this is not thy rest ! 

This is not our rest — thou on manhood's broad track, 

Or toiling in age for life's perishing things, 
From its fatal allurements in season turn back, 

And plume for the skies, wearied spirit, thy wings : 
Each day brings its trials, vexations, and pain, 

And vainly thou dream'st of a future more blest ; 
Alas ! it but pictures the present again — 

Look upward, look upward, this is not thy rest ! 

This is not our rest — far beyond the dark tomb, 

It rises in beauty more bright than the day ; 
Its sun never darkened, and fadeless the bloom, 

That smiles in a region which knows not decay. 
There, the River of Life, its pure waters will roll, 

By the mansions of glory, prepared for the blest, 
And there with the Saviour, oh ! then will the soul, 

Enjoy an eternal, unchangeable rest. 



116 



MINISTERING SPIRITS. 



And do ye still, on wings of love and light, 

Oh ! heavenly guardians, hover round our way ? 
To shield from danger creatures of a day, 

Do ye abandon realms all fair and bright ? 

Ye are about our daily paths unseen, 

Our darkened eyes your glory may not scan — 
Breathe still your sweet monitions unto man, 

Ye of celestial form and holy mien. 

Still watch above us in our lot of care, 
Be infancy to your protection given, 

Teach manhood meekly life's sharp ills to bear, 
And to the aged, bring sweet dreams of heaven ; 

And be your last employ, at Death's stern nod, 

To waft the ransomed spirit back to God. 



117 



THE ABSENT COMMUNICANT. 



The holy feast is spread again, 

And all are gathered there, 
And to the altar's foot they press 

With reverence and with prayer, 
Young heads of bright and sunny locks, 

And those of silvery hair: 
Age, youth, and beauty, side by side, 
Commemorate the crucified. 



118 



THE ABSENT COMMUNICANT. 

I hear in thought the organ's tone, 

Its rich harmonious swell, 
The plaintive hymn breathed forth again, 

Of Jesus' love to tell, 
The pastor's voice of kind regard, 

Beloved so long and well, 
Then see the sacred symbols given, 
And mortals eat the bread of heaven. 

In thought, alas ! in thought alone, — 

I may not kneel to-day, 
Among that band of worshippers, 

Or in that temple pray, 
Or taste with them that blessed food, 

Strength for life's pilgrim way : 
The holy feast is spread, and prayer 
Ascends, but one is absent there. 

The church bells have been ringing out 

With their enlivening tone, 
And yet within my chamber's bound, 

All silent and alone, 



THE ABSENT COMMUNICANT. 119 

I sit to muse upon the past, 
The hours for ever flown, 
When through the sacred aisle I trod, 
To bow within the house of God. 

And as the weary hart doth pant, 

For water-courses fair, 
I long to reach the holy fane, 

And pay my homage there, 
And with God's people kneel me down, 

Forgetting earthly care : 
It may not be — my heart be still, 
And bend thee to Jehovah's will. 

Thou, who in desert mountains lone, 

Did'st hie where none might see, 
To pour thy soul in secret prayer, 

And bend the suppliant knee, 
And ask thy Father's pardoning love 

For guilty ones like me ; — 
Give me thy presence, though alone 
I bow before thy glorious throne. 



120 THE ABSENT COMMUNICANT. 

Saviour, be with me : may thy love 

Light up my path to-day, 
And may thy Spirit's power divine 

My every action sway ; 
Bless thou this sacred Sabbath time, 

Although alone I pray, 
And lift my soul, and cheer my heart, 
When from thy people far apart. 



121 



STANZAS, 



SUGGESTED BY THE DEATH OF A YOUNG DAUGHTER OF THE 
REV. DR. SCHROEDER. 



I saw a lovely flower 

Upon a slender spray, 
But a rude blast came, with sudden power, 

And swept its bloom away : 
It bent beneath the blow, 

And its leaves to earth were given, 
But the bitter wind that had laid it low, 

Bore its fragrance unto heaven. 
16 



122 STANZAS. 

I marked a rainbow's form, 

When the summer shower went by, 
Born of the sunbeam and the storm — 

Spanning the eastern sky : 
And I gazed upon the sight, 

Till the glorious arch was riven, 
And its varied hues of gorgeous light 

Melted away in heaven. 

I watched a merry bird, 

Building its fairy nest, 
And the glossy leaves by its wings were stirred, 

Round that little spot of rest ; 
And I deemed its gushing song 

Would still to mine ear be given, 
But it plumed its wing for the skies ere long, 

And soared, and sang, in heaven. 

I gazed on a gentle star, 

That was bright in the evening sky, 
And thought, how it smiled in its home afar, 

When watched by a mortal's eye ; 



STANZAS. 123 

But the tempest gathered fast, 

And wildly the clouds were driven, 

And the star was lost, as their dark folds passed, 
But I knew it was still in heaven. 

So, like that lovely flower, 

And like that rainbow's light, 
And like the bird of the summer bower, 

And the glittering star of night ; 
Hath thy loved one, in life's pure spring, 

From thy fond embraces riven, 
Been borne away on an angel's wing, 

To dwell in the light of heaven. 



124 



ORDINATION 



High upon Zion's holy walls, 

Thy place and portion hence will be : 
It is Jehovah's voice which calls, 

To gird thee with His panoply. 

Sleep not upon thine honoured post — 
Bear thou an eagle's piercing eye — 

Blow loud the trumpet 'mid the host, 
And warn them that the foe is nigh. 



ORDINATION. 125 

Unfurl the blood-stained banner free, 

To float above thee far and wide ; 
And let thy watchword ever be, 

In good or ill, " Christ crucified !" 

Watch, for thou know'st not of the time 
Thy Lord will come with mighty power — ■ 

Whether at day's unsullied prime, 
At early dawn, or midnight hour. 

Go forth undaunted — ever bear 

A fearless heart, when danger springs ; 

For Oh, remember, thou dost wear 
The armour of the King of Kings ! 

Fight the good fight — thy steady aim 
Shall make the vengeful foe despair ; 

Go forth in thy Redeemer's name, 

And be thy weapons Faith and Prayer. 

Go forth — fulfil the work begun — 
Forsaking earth, and earth's renown — 

Then rise from death, the conquest won, 
To wear the victor's fadeless crown. 



126 



CHRISTMAS. 



"This is time, when most divine to hear, 

The voice of Adoration rouses me, 

As with a cherub's trump ; and high upborne, 

Yea, mingling with the choir, I seem to view 

The vision of the heavenly multitude, 

Who hymned the song of Peace o'er Bethlehem's fields." 

Coleridge. 



A star hangs bright o'er Bethlehem's vale — 
Angelic voices wake the morn ; 

And shepherds hear the wond'rous tale, 
Jesus, the promised child, is born. 

The harps of heaven on earth are strung : 

Good will to men, by seraphs sung. 



CHRISTMAS. 127 

They seek the babe — no regal state — 
No princely pomp are His the while ; 

On Him no bright-robed courtiers wait, 
But humble peasants watch His smile : 

The magi kneel, and shepherds bend, 

To Him whom angels did attend. 



He has resigned a crown of light — 
Laid all his glorious vestments by - 

And shrouding in this world of night 
The splendors of the Deity, 

Hath come to succor, save, and bless, 

His creatures in their wretchedness. 



Saviour, again we hail the day, 
When brightly rose thy natal star ; 

And join the angel's heaven-taught lay, 
Which in the azure fields afar — 

The music of celestial spheres, 

Rang on the shepherd's listening ears. 



128 CHRISTMAS. 

And lo, from Nature's hand we bear 
An offering for thy holy shrine ; 

With evergreen, and garlands fair, 
High arch and lofty pillar twine : 

And joyfully our pseans raise, 

Redeemer, Saviour, in Thy praise. 



And though no bright, peculiar gem, 
Is hung upon our midnight sky — 

Like that which shone o'er Bethlehem, 
What time the heavenly hosts were nigh 

Thy Word our polar star shall be, 

Guiding us on, to heaven and Thee. 



129 



HAPPINESS 



Thou hast no earthly home, thou radiant guest, 
Brief is thy sojourn with the sons of clay; 

Thy smiles, like parting sunbeams, scarcely rest 
Upon our path, ere they have passed away : 
It is in vain we ask their farther stay, — 

It may not be, thou hast no dwelling here, 

Thou art a winged angel hovering near, 
But seldom stooping to our clouded way. 

Where naming cherubim for ever swell 
High-pealing anthems on the ambient air, 

And harps by seraphs tuned, for ever tell 
Immanuel's love and glory — Spirit, there, 

There is thy home, thy bright and true abode, 

Only a lingerer here, thy birth-place is with God. 
17 



130 



A LAMENT 



INSCRIBED TO THE MEMORY OF L. 



"Youth and the opening rose, 
May look like things too glorious for decay, 

And smile at thee; but thou art not of those 
That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey." 

Mrs. Hemans. 



Gone hence to thy rest — in a far brighter land 

Thou hast entered the mansions of glory and bliss ; 
In that radiant clime, with the seraphim band, 

Thou forgettest the thorns and the shadows of this : 
Oh, who can deplore thee, or ask thy recall, 

Thus early unfettered, for ever made free, 
Or wish thee again in the world's bitter thrall — 

We may weep for ourselves, but we must not for thee. 



A LAMENT. 131 

Thy blue eye is dim, there is dust on thy brow, 

The rose hue of life, it hath faded away ; 
How peacefully dear one thou sluraberest now, 

Nought, nought can awake thee,~nor darkness, nor day : 
The heart that was beating with kindness alone, 

Is still — all its throbbings for ever are o'er, 
And the voice that we loved for its sweetness of tone, 

Alas ! we may list to its music no more. 

How short was thy sojourn, how brief was thy stay, 

A summer of beauty, a season of love — 
Bright forms that we knew not have called thee away, 

And wings that we heard not, have borne thee above : 
Thou wert snatched from the sorrows that haply may 
throw 

Their withering blight over life's riper years ; 
And in regions immortal, thou never can'st know 

The heart's weary pining, the eye's bitter tears. 

And gladly the springtime shall waken the flowers, 
And summer clothe brightly with blossoms each tree ; 

But the joy of the sunbeams, the calm of the hours, 
Will come not again gentle sleeper to thee : 



132 A LAMENT. 

The earth in its robes of delight will be dressed, 

And the soft winds may sigh o'er thy place of repose ; 

Thou wilt heed not their whisper, nor wake from thy rest, 
To greet the young lily and welcome the rose. 

But as the soft moonbeams when shed o'er the sea, 

Will tinge with their lustre the wave's tossing foam, 
So, lost one, will come the fond memory of thee, 

To throw its pure light o'er the grief of thy home : 
So, blessed recollections shall ever arise, 

To soothe the deep sorrow that pierces each breast, 
And Faith shall point up to thy home in the skies, 

And Love shall rejoice thou art safe and at rest. 

Yes, safe and at rest — not a shade to o'ercast 

The light of thy soul in that radiant sphere, 
Life's brief journey over, its perils all passed, 

Thou art basking in sunshine celestial and clear : 
Could thy voice reach us now from that far distant shore, 

We should list to the notes of an angel's sweet strain, 
To say when a few fleeting seasons are o'er, 

In gladness and light, we shall meet thee again. 



133 



PROSPERITY 



All seek thee — from the palace walls of state, 
To the low cottage where the poor man bides, 

The sons of earth for unseen blessings wait, 
And ask, in each estate, some gift beside. 

We trust to thee for happiness, and deem 
We shall know all of bliss in finding thee — 
Believe not, fortune's favours oft may be 

As vague and shadowy as a midnight dream : 

Ah ! we should humbly bask beneath thy smile, 
For thou may' st prove a fatal boon when given 

Under thy mask the tempter may beguile, 

Luring the soul from virtue and from heaven ; 

Thou hold'st a poisoned chalice to the lip, 

Sweet to the taste, yet they may die who sip. 



134 



ADVERSITY. 



Thou art a harsh instructor — yet by thee 

We learn important lessons — thou dost teach 
How frail and fleeting earthly hopes may be, 

How oft the goal recedes we strive to reach : 
Thine is a form of darkness, and we turn 

Heart-sick and weary from the sad embrace, 
Would fly thy dreaded presence ever stern, 

And trembling, hide us from thy frowning face. 
But through the world's dim pathway, thy cold hand 

Is leading to a home of joy and peace, 
And on the borders of that better land, 

Will thy sharp ministry for ever cease, 
And we shall bless thee, safely landed there, 
And know in heaven how good thy bitter teachings 
were. 



135 



TO THE PORTRAIT OF A CHILD. 

" Thou art so lifelike, speak to me." 

Thy lip hath a curl of winning grace, 

And smiles are lighting thy cherub face, 

And thine eyes beam forth with a cunning glee, 

Meet for the features of infancy ; 

And thy silken tresses in beauty fall 

Round thy temples fair, like a coronal : 

How much like life ! Can it really be 

Only the canvass that smiles on me ? 



136 TO THE PORTRAIT OF A CHILD. 

Oh ! well hath the painter's skill portrayed 
Thy fairy figure in light and shade ! 
So well, that I list for thy laughing tone, 
And look for thy ringers to grasp my own, 
And hear thy wishes for some gay toy 
In thy gentle accents, my bright-haired boy ! 
Wilt thou not bound in thy joyousness 
To my open arms, and my fond caress ? 

Picture, thou tellest of beauty bright, 
Lip like the ruby, and eye of light — 
Cheek of the rose-tint, and forehead fair, 
And a buoyant spirit unchained by care. 
Boy — as thy years roll swiftly on, 
When childhood's visions and hopes have flown, 
Look on thine image, and strive to be, 
Guileless and pure as in infancy. 



137 



TEN YEARS AGO 



" Too soon, Oh! all too soon will come 

In later years the spell, 
Touching- with changing hues the path 

Where once but sunlight fell." 

Frances S. Osgood. 



Ten years ago ! a weary age it seems 
To look ten years beyond the present hour ; 
But when far down the lengthened hill of Time, 
We cast a backward glance at some far point 
Our pilgrim feet ten years before had left — 
How easily the retrospective eye 
May span the pathway : — but a moment's flight 
Hath marked the parted hours, and memory asks, 
Half cheated of her power, the scattered leaves, 
Where, with recording pencil, she hath writ 
The pains or pleasures of that by-gone time. 
18 



138 



TEN YEARS AGO. 



Ten years ago ! it seems but yesterday ! 

And I remember then, a happy girl, 

Upon whose face the world had cast no care, 

Stood at the altar-side, and gave her heart 

With all its hoarded wealth of tenderness 

To one who long had loved her. They had grown 

Together like young plants ; and when the world 

Deemed them as children, or spoke jestingly 

Of that, which, to their young untroubled hearts 

Was light, and dew, and sunshine — they had vowed 

With the deep fervor of a deathless love, 

To wander hand in hand through life's long way, 

To launch their bark together on the waves, 

And to one haven steer their onward course. 

Little they recked of peril and of storm — 

They had exchanged that high and holy faith 

Which angels bless, and with a perfect trust 

In all the fairy promises of Hope, 

They deemed an angel's wing would shelter them 

From the rude billow's chiding. 

They were wed. 
I do remember that bright morning hour 



TEN YEARS AGO. 139 

Of sunny May, and the fair company 

Of bridal guests ; and still, methinks, I hear 

Voices of gratulation, and kind words 

From loving hearts, and a fond blessing breathed 

From lips parental, as together passed 

That youthful pair adown the sacred aisle : 

So blessed to find their dream of joy fulfilled, 

They asked no boon beside. 

And o'er them rolled, 
From that auspicious hour, ten happy years. 
How swift, when joy hath winged them, do they fly — 
How slowly creep along their destined course, 
When leaden-footed Sorrow drags them on. 
But with the beings of my history, 
The sunlit hours on golden pinions flew. 
There were no clouds to dim their tranquil sky — 
No storms to fright them — no wild waves to dash 
The fragile bark whose helm Affection ruled ; — 
And when a blue-eyed babe upon them smiled 
In its young beauty, like a bud of heaven, 
Life's cup of blessedness seemed brimmed for them, 
'Till the pure sparkling waters must o'erflow. 



140 TEN YEARS AGO. 

Ten years ! ten years ! all numbered with the past ! 

And the revolving months again have brought 

That nuptial day. But where are now the hearts 

So closely linked ? They have been parted ! 

He is reposing by the church's side, 

And she is widowed. In her lonely home, 

With her eye fixed upon the weeping clouds, 

Which seem to give their tears in sympathy, 

And her fair orphan boy beside her knee, 

She muses on the past — recalls fair forms, 

And faded scenes, and days of happiness, 

And looks of love, and words of holy trust — 

And asks her heart if it indeed be true 

That she has lost them all. 

A widow's grief! 
There are no words can speak it. He who gave 
A language unto man, gave him no power 
To syllable such sorrow. They had loved 
Too ardently for those whom death must sever — 
Loved, 'till the full o'erladen heart had throbbed 
With all its weight of untold tenderness. 
He had been more than all the world to her, 



TEN YEARS AGO. 141 

The idol in the temple of her soul, 

The radiant star that in her cloudless heaven 

Beamed with a light above its fellow stars. 

She had hung proudly on his gifted words, 

When others deemed she scarce had heard their flow, 

Or drank, as from a fount of purest wave, 

The gushing love poured on her ear alone. 

Ah ! she had prized the gift too far above 

The bounteous Giver — garnered up her love 

In a clay casket — leaned upon a reed 

Frail as a willow-twig, yet breaking, pierced 

The heart which clung to it. And God had known, 

How at an altar consecrate to Him, 

She burned sweet incense for a mortal shrine, 

And now to draw her spirit heavenward, 

Severed the golden chain which bound her here, 

And placed her idol nearer to Himself, 

To lure her onward to the betler land. 



142 



IN MEMORY OF HENRY S. CRAIG.* 



The fair earth looketh dim — the golden sun 

Gleams not, methinks, so brightly as of yore, 
And each familiar thing he looks upon, 

With a strange gloom is darkly shadowed o'er : 
But nature is not changed — unto our eyes 

Alone she seemeth sad, for thou art gone, 
Whose smile was sunshine for our wintry skies, 

Whose words were music, and whose gentle tone 
Of love or kindness, came upon the ear 
Like the pure gushing of a fountain clear. 



* Beloved and respected by all who knew him, perished in the burning of the steamboat 
Lexington, 13th January, 1810. The above lines wcro written at the time, but never 
before published. 



IN MEMORY OF HENRY S. CRAIG. 143 

Life was all bright before thee — who could deem 

It's fairy promises would fade so soon ? 
Fond hopes have perished like the rainbow's gleam — 

A sun obscured at its high hour of noon : 
Age had not stamped his furrows on thy brow, 

Nor strewed his silvery threads in thy dark hair : 
Still wore thy manly cheek its wonted glow, 

Unwrinkled by the withering touch of care : 
Thine eye yet flashed with all the fire of youth, 
And on thy lip dwelt stern, unbending truth. 



Oh! there is darkness o'er thy home, and tears, 

Deep, burning tears of heart-felt agony, 
As memory brings again thine earlier years, 

Oh ! loved and lost one, still are shed for thee 
Thy mother for her first-born bows in dust, 

Her stay in widowhood, her pride and joy ; 
Recalls thy childhood's time of love and trust, 

And wails thy manhood's glory fall'n for ay : 
And thy young sisters, who will guard as thou, 
Their orphan heads from every evil now ? 



144 



IN MEMORY OF HENRY S. CRAIG, 



But there is one who in her girlhood's hour, 

Gave up her sweet affections unto thee, 
How she lies smitten like a withered flower, 

When autumn winds have swept its native tree : 
Her idol in the dust hath fallen low — 

And the white wreath that twined amid her hair, 
When at thy side a few short months ago 

She stood a happy bride, so young, so fair, — 
Is changed, for what ? Alas ! that pallid brow, 
Wears the dark shrouding of the widowed now. 



Oh ! who shall speak her anguish ! who may tell 

The misery that clouds her sunniest years ! 
Who shall e'er fathom pure affections well, 

Or dry the fountain of her bitter tears ! 
What unto her are spring's first fragrant flowers, 

Or all the charms of summer's blushing day ? 
Will she not read the past, in such bright hours, 

And hear thy voice in every wind's soft play ? 
Will not the smiling earth, the balmy air, 
Whisper of moments blessed, when thou wert there ? 



IN MEMORY OF HENRY S. CRAIG. 145 

Yes, they will miss thee, unto whom belong 

The ever dear remembrance of thy worth — 
They will lament thee, when the heartless throng 

Have quite forgotten thou wert once of earth ; 
At morning's prime, at daylight's dewy close, 

When Summer flings her bloom on field and tree ; 
When Autumn's hand her gorgeous livery throws 

O'er hill and forest, they will dream of thee. 
In the lone midnight, when the world is still, 
How will thine image each sad bosom thrill. 

Heart-stricken mourners ! mother, widowed wife ! 

And ye, fond sisters, still your tears restrain ; 
" He is not dead but sleepeth" — in the life 

Beyond, immortal, ye shall meeragain : 
Press on, press on, to that eternal shore, 

Where the tossed barque at last in safety moors ; 
God to your arms the lost one will restore, 

And love, celestial love, be ever yours. 
Then turn from earth, with its o'ershadowing care, 
And fix your hearts in heaven, for he is there. 
19 



146 



TO A FRIEND AT PARTING 



Think of me — when ? 
Just at the gentle twilight hour, 
When the dew is falling on leaf and flower, 
When birds to their quiet nests have gone, 
And the summer night comes softly on, 

Think of me then. 

Think of me — when ? 
As thou art roving through pleasant glades, 
Or wandering 'mid the deep forest shades, 
Gazing on flower, and field, and tree, 
Let thy thoughts turn for awhile to me — 

Think of me then. 



TO A FRIEND AT PARTING. 147 

Think of me — when ? 
As some sweet strain we have loved to hear, 
Comes with a pathos deep to thine ear, 
And a soft note over thy senses flung, 
Brings back the time when that lay was sung, 

Think of me then. 

Think of me — when ? 
In the early hours of the summer morn, 
When no rude sounds on the breeze are borne, 
When all is balmy, and sweet, and still, 
And the mists are rising from stream and hill, 

Think of me then. 

Think of me — when ? 
At that lone hour, when on bended knee, 
Thou art breathing a prayer to the Deity, 
That all whom thou lovest he may defend, 
Oh, ask some boon for thy distant friend — 

Think of me then. 



148 



WINTER TWILIGHT 



Brief hour tor thought ! the dark and wintry day- 
Is deepening into night, though no pale star 

To guide the traveller with its timorous ray 
Yet glimmers in the purple depths afar. 

Darkness comes stealing on ; — from labor free, 
The weary woodman seeks his cottage door, 
Where mirthful children on the sanded floor 

Leap at his coming, and press round his knee. 

From distant casements lights are twinkling now, 
Where busy matrons still the needle ply, 
Or some pale student strains the anxious eye, 

And bends o'er classic page with thoughtful brow. 
Stir we the fire ; seek fancy's wild domain, 
And rear some airy fabric's dizzy height again. 



149 



PAST AND PRESENT 



Can this be the creature of laughter and light, 

Who, twenty short summers ago, 
O'er the clouds of my spirit threw colours as bright 

As heaven's own beautiful bow? 

Can this be the maid of the merry blue eye, 
That chained the young heart in my breast, 

'Till it throbbed with delight if her form flitted by, 
Or came in bright dreams to my rest ? — 



150 PAST AND PRESENT. 

Who roamed o'er the green with a fairy-like trip, 
Or so featly danced over the dew, — 

While laughter seemed born on her roseate lip, 
And smiles were the breath that she drew? — 

Whose voice had the gladness and mirth of a rill, 

The sweetness of musical birds, — ' 
And the ear and the heart were made captive at will, 

By the sound of her soft-flowing words ? — 

How changed ; — yet methinks there's a lovelier light 
That beams from her gentle blue eye — 

A something more holy, more tenderly bright, 
Than lit them in seasons gone by. 

The rich golden curls that once shaded her brow 

Are parted with matronly grace, 
And a few silver threads intertwined with them now, 

Usurp all too quickly their place. 

She is changed — but long vigils in weariness kept, 

Her lily-like paleness bespeak, 
And eyes will grow dim that too often have wept, 

And grief leave its trace on the cheek. 



PAST AND PRESENT. 151 

For sorrow's dark pall o'er her life hath been cast, 

The life once so happy and gay ; 
And idols, as dear as the life-blood, have passed 

From her heart's inmost temple awa}''. 

She is changed — the rare beauty, my pride and de- 
light, 

Like a blossom too soon hath decayed, 
But her soul, a pure jewel transcendently bright, 

Still shines, though the casket may fade. 

Sweet wife of my bosom, though years have flown o'er, 
Since the moment I called thee my bride, 

Yet the love that we cherished so fondly of yore, 
Shall still keep me close to thy side. 

Shall still every thought of my being engage, 

To prize all thy goodness and truth, 
And still will I love thee as fondly in age, 

As fondly I loved thee in youth. 



152 



TO A PICTURE 



OF PIERRE DECORNILLAN, GRAND MASTER OF THE KNIGHTS HOSPITALLERS, IN 
A PAINTER'S STUDIO. 



What dost thou here, old knight ? 
With thine armour on, and thy casque laid by ; 
To the field ! to the field ! where the valiant fight, 

And brave men meet to die. 

This is no place for thee ! 
The sound of the bugle should greet thine ear ; 
Hie, hie where thy banner is waving free ! 

Why art thou lingering here ? 



TO A P I C T U RE. 153 

They wait thee to lead them on, 
They list thy war-note by hill and stream : 
Hath the spirit that nerved thee to battle flown ? 

Oh ! wake thee from thy dream ! 

Thou phantom of the past ! 
Long hast thou slumbered in dull decay : 
And thy comrades, the bravest, the best, the last, 

Have passed like thee away. 

Vainly I call thee now ! 
Thou heed'st not a moment my feeble breath, 
Thine eye is dim, and thy noble brow 

Pressed by the hand of Death. 

Thy clarion's voice is still; 
And thy banner furled, to the moth is given, 
No more shall its folds at thy sovereign will, 

Float in the breeze of heaven. 

All is alike forgot ! 

Thou, as do others, have laid thee down, 

Thy deeds of valor remembering not, 

And deaf to all renown. 
20 



154 TO A PICTURE. 

Thou art but imaged here, 
For time o'er thy spirit hath no more sway : 
Thou hast finished thy bright and high career, 

And passed to thy doom away. 

And only a glorious art, 
May bear thee back by it wonderous power, 
And methinks it whispers the human heart, 

"So brief is glory's hour." 



155 



JUNE. 



Come with thy rose-wreaths, fair and laughing June ! 

Fling thy rich odors upon every gale ; 
Bid the blue waters wake their blithest tune, 

And joy, and light, and melody prevail. 
Thou hast a store of treasures, and with thee 

We look for all things lovely : butterflies 

Flit like winged jewels 'neath thy sunny skies, 
And roam, with tones of music, bird and bee. 
Thou art the loveliest of the sisters three — 

Summer's most beauteous child ! Oh, still delay, 

Fairest of months ! thy parting; fondly stay, 
And pour thy radiant smiles on lake and lea : 

Bear not from earth thy blessed gifts so soon ; 

Stay, stay thy flight, oh fair and laughing June ! 



156 JUNE. 

I would be with thee on the sunny hills, 

And by the streams would linger, as they flow 
With their perpetual music, sweet and low : 

And where, in light, leap out the shining rills, 

Like chains of liquid diamonds, I would be ; 

Methinks 'twere sweet to wander far and free, 

Tempting each craggy height or sylvan shade — 

A loiterer, where the mossy banks, inlaid 
With Nature's flowery gems, invite repose ; 

And stealing o'er my brow, thy breath of balm 
Might lull each care my beating bosom knows, 

And bid the tossing waves of thought be calm ; 
And I might half forget life's boding ills, 
Roaming with thee out on the sunny hills. 

Alas ! it may not be ; I am forbid 

By a stern duty, and my feet must press, 
Day after day, in toil and weariness, 

The city's streets ; while in my heart is hid 

Strange, passionate yearnings for a brighter spot: 

My childhood's home is stealing on my sight — 
In native loveliness all unforgot, 

Fancy reveals it. Well I know, the blight 



157 



Of time has dimmed its beauty ; yet to me 
It ever rises with the summer day, 
Decked by thy hand in fair and fresh array ; 

And on its verdant slopes I long to be, 
A happy child, as careless and as gay, 
As erst in thy bright reign I laughed the hours away. 



158 



SONNET TO A CHILD. 



Lovely thou art as earliest buds of spring, 

And fresh as glowing summer's opening rose ; 

Fair as the vale's young lily blossoming, 

When, 'neath the sunbeam's touch, its leaves unclose. 

My own loved child, thou art a sunny gleam 
Lent as a light to cheer my earthly way : 
Thy fairy footsteps in thy bounding play, 

And thy soft tones, delicious music seem. 

What would a mother's heart not ask for thee 
From Him who gave thee in thy loveliness ? 
Ever around thy path, to shield, to bless, 

Beloved one, may thy heavenly Guardian be : 

Thy portion here, — then with His bright-robed choir, 

Give thee an angel's wing, a seraph's burning lyre. 



159 



THE OLD ALBUM 



I've drawn thee from thy hiding-place, 

Relic of by-gone days, 
Again thy gilded leaves to trace, 

Thy well-known garb to praise ; 
To bring thee to the glaring light, 

From out thy silent nook ; — 
Come, tell old tales of moments bright, 

Thou long-neglected book ! 



160 



THE OLD ALBUM. 



How well I know thy crimson coat, 

So garnished o'er with gold ! 
And half with sorrow, half with smiles, 

The tarnished robe behold. 
And fondly I recall the hour, 

When first I saw thee lie 
Affection's gift, all glossy bright, 

Beneath my 'raptured eye. 

And first, the faded lines I trace, 

Penned by a gentle hand ; 
They bring to me the fairest face 

That graced a youthful band. 
Sweet play-mate of my earlier years — 

Companion of the past ! 
Thou hast forgot thy life of tears, 

In happier realms at last ! 

Again I turn the rustling leaf: 
Who comes before me now, 

With the light heart that mocked at grief- 
The fair, unclouded brow ; 



THE OL!) ALBUM. 161 

The eye that flashed with Passion's ray, 

Unalterably bright ? — 
How changed ! — long years have stolen away 

That wild, fantastic light. 

Ha ! my gay cousin ! — thou whose mirth 

Was never on the wane ! 
I read thy sonnet, till I deem 

Thou'rt by my side again, 
With thy wild laughter ringing free, 

Thy sly and merry air ! 
That time is gone ; thy manly brow 

A graver look doth wear. 

What fairy fingers held the pen 

That traced this dainty page ? 
It bears the date of other years, 

And seems quite pale with age. 
Ah ! I remember me of one 

Just then become a bride ; 
She smiles a careful matron now, 

With prattlers at her side. 
21 



162 



THE OLD ALBU 



And here is writ a blithesome song, 

And here a tender lay ; 
This page is sad enough, I ween, 

And this one passing gay. 
And here a youthful poet's hand 

Placed the sweet rhymes he wove ; 
The truant ! — in a foreign land 

He sought another love. 

Thou mak'st me sad, thou gilded toy ! 

And as I gaze on thee, 
I think how time and change have thrown 

Their shadows over me : 
The flush of youth has vanished now, 

Friends severed far and wide ; 
In curls that wave on many a brow, 

Time's silvery foot-marks hide. 



Go back then to thy silent nook, 

Memento of the past ! 
Thou tell'st a tale, my much-]oved book, 

Of years that flew too fast ; 



THE OLD ALBUM. 163 

And read'st a lesson to my heart, 

Perused full oft before : 
That hopes must fade, and friends must part, 

Till Life's dark day is o'er. 



164 



MARCH 



Thou art a rude and noisy wight, 

Though thou bear' st the name of spring ; 
And the wintery winds with their chilling blight, 
That we thought were gone to the realms of night, 
Come back on thy restless wing. 

We look in vain for the gentle flowers, 

That blush with the spring-time gay ; 
They wait till soft April's dewy showers 
Shall waken the leaves, and the woodland bowers 
Are decked in their green a.rrav. 






165 



The birds still wander in southern lands, 

Afar from the clime they left ; 
And the streams still sleep in their icy bands, 
And the giant oak of the forest, stands 

Of his emerald robe bereft. 

The clouds are dark on thy frowning skies, 

Like the leaden pall of night ; 
And they wave like massive draperies, 
Till a flush of sunset's crimson dyes 

Hath turned them to banners bright. 

Oh ! why should' st thou bear the name of Spring, 

Thou month of cold and gloom ? 
Her gentle treasures thou can'st not bring, 
For in greener bowers the wild birds sing, 

And the flowers forget to bloom. 

The city belle, with a pensive sigh, 

Deplores thy rigorous sway ; 
The winter's garb she would fain lay by, 
And robed like the light-winged butterfly, 

Come forth with the insects gay. 



166 MARCH. 

And the cottage girl hath her 'kerchief blue, 

And ribbon of pearly white, 
And she looks full oft at their spotless hue, 
And asks, " will the sunbeams ne'er peep through, 

And the skies again look bright?" 

Oh ! why should'st thou bear a gentle name, 

Thou month so drear and chill V 
We hear thy blast through the forest ring, 
And ask in vain for the meek-eyed Spring, 

For Winter is with us still. 



167 



THE FROZEN STREAM 



Chained with strong fetters, fair and restless stream, 
Thine onward course, thou rover, harshly stayed, 
No more by mossy bank or sylvan glade, 

Goest thou rejoicing — and the solar beam 

That erst threw glittering gems upon thy breast, 
No longer owns a power to set thee free : 

Fain would the golden rays disturb thy rest, 
But faint and trembling, fail to succor thee. 

A mighty arm forbids thy further flow, 

And seals with icy band each sparkling wave — 
Lays bare the verdant bank thou lov'st to lave, 

And stills thy babbling tongue ; nor shalt thou know, 

Sweet captive, aught of liberty again, 

Till Spring, with gentle hand, unbinds the chilling chain. 



168 



A WHISPER FROM FAIRY LAND 



Alas ! alas ! for the fairy folk, 

Who, under the boughs of the elm or oak, 

Danced in the moon-beams till morning broke. 
They made their homes in our brightest bowers, 

They revelled at night 'neath our favourite tree, 
They slept 'mid the leaves of our fairest flowers, 

And woke the still air with their fairy glee : 
The rose was the throne of the elfish queen, 

With a royal flush of crimson dye ; 
And her couch was the lily's cup I ween, 

Where she slept till the stars came out on high, 



A WHISPER FROM FAIRY LAND. 169 

And one reposed on the violet's lip, 

Where the earliest dew-drops all sparkling lay ; 
Oh ! sweet were the honied gems to sip, 

As a nectar draught to that dancing fay. 
Alas ! alas ! for the fairy folk — 
As thus I sighed, on the still air broke 
A silvery voice, and this answer spoke : 

" Sad indeed the fatal hour 
Fairies fled from earthly bower, 
When no more in magic ring, 
They could dance, and laugh, and sing, 
Tripping through each haunted grove, 
While the Moon was bright above, 
And amid their gentle mirth, 
Flinging fairy gifts o'er earth. 

"First they threw the dew-drops sweet, 
Where the vales were parched with heat ; 
And the cotter woke at morn, 
Glad to find the springing corn. 
Where the busy wheel was still, 
There they led the laughing rill ; 



170 A WHISPER FROM FAIRY LAND. 

And at morning's earliest beam, 
Joyed the miller o'er the stream, 
Deeming 'twas the summer rain 
Thus had filled his pools again. 
Where the tidy housewife's care, 
Would the early meal prepare — 
Hands unseen at midnight drear, 
Spread the board with dainty cheer, 
Woke the maids at peep of day, 
With a fairy roundelay ; 
And a thousand favors then 
Lavishly bestowed on men. 

" Thus we lived — the summer day 
Wore all peacefully away, 
As we slumbered in the cell 
Of the fragrant lily's bell, 
'Till the purple twilight fell 
Soft on meadow, grove, and dell, 
And our queen's attendant train, 
Called us to our tasks again. 

" All the balmy summer through, 
Thus we lived, a merry crew, 



A WHISPER FROM FAIRY LAND. 171 

Gay and lightsome, 'till a foe, 
Came to work us fear and woe. 
Hideous was the monster grim, 
Strange alike in face and limb ; 
Wheresoe'er he chanced to roam, 
There did wonderous changes come. 
Hard it were for me to tell 
All the harm which then befell, 
As before his giant sway- 
Fled the frightened elves away. 
Soon our magic ring gave place 
To the courser's flying race ; 
Swiftly through the land there came 
Steedless chariots urged by flame, 
Hissing with such horrid tone 
As they rushed all madly on, 
That the fays in great affright 
Feared to tempt the summer night. 

" Soon the groves were borne to earth, 
Once resounding with our mirth ; 
Nature's children, faint at heart, 
Fled before the steps of Art. 



172 A WHISPER FROM FAIRY LAND 

Where the mineral waters bright 
Sparkle in the morning light, 
Cure for every fairy's ill, 
Bathing in the healing rill, 
Whiskered dandy, perfumed belle, 
Came to break the holy spell : 
Once by mortal taste defiled, 
Lost the charm for elfland child ; 
And where bright those waters play, 
Never more their steps may stray. 

" Sad the change — ungrateful man, 
Then to doubt our power began ; 
Wickedly proclaimed, that we 
Lived alone in phantasie ; 
Scorned our gifts with skeptic word, 
Left our warnings all unheard, 
And with impious jeer and jest, 
Other sway than our's confessed. 

" What then could the fairies do ? 
Far away from earth we flew, 
At our gracious queen's command, 
Back again to fairy land : 



A WHISPER FROM FAIRY LAND. 173 

Nor shall mortal ever see 

Aught of elfish revelry. 

Changed is now each haunted spot, 

And the elves are half forgot, 

Only sung in legends wild, 

To the gay and wondering child ; 

Or remembered, it may be, 

Lady fair, by such as thee." 



174 



EARLY DAYS. 



Do you remember, Mary, 

All our happy childish days ? 
When our hearts were light and airy, 

And with footsteps like a fays 
We bounded o'er the meadow, 

Or adown the wooded lane, 
And plucked each summer blossom, 

And mocked the wild bird's strain ? 
When in that old fashioned garden 

We built our grotto fair, 
With the shells that were so lovely, 

We were loth to leave them there ? - 



EARLY DAYS. 175 



When we planted by the willow 

The hyacinth so blue, 
And early left our pillow 

To watch how fast it grew ? 
Do you remember, Mary, 

Those happy, happy days ; 
When our hearts were light and airy, 

And our footsteps like a fays ? 



Do you remember ever 

Our happy girlhood hours, 
When we wandered by the river, 

Or amid the forest bowers ? 
When we had so many secrets 

That were never to be told, 
And we thought them quite as weighty 

As a miser's bag of gold ? 
When we conned our lessons over 

By the old laburnum tree, 
With sweet summer sounds to lure us 

In the voice of bird and bee ? 



176 EARLY DAYS. 

And our games upon the hill-side, 

On the green, or by the swing, 
With Antoinette and Amy, 

Who were foremost in the ring ? 
Or our quarrel in the greenwood, 

Underneath the spreading vine, 
Because a school-boy lover 

Preferred your eyes to mine ? — 
Do you remember, Mary, 

All those happy girlhood hours, 
When our hearts were light and airy, 

And we trod a path of flowers ? — 
A path of thornless flowers, 

Beneath a smiling sky, 
Nor dreamed in such fair bowers 

That care could ever lie. 



And I hope you've not forgotten 
Our first and famous ball, 

When we tripped it gay and lightly 
Through that antiquated hall ; 



EARLY DAYS. 177 

When our mothers sat beside us, 

With a mother's partial eye, 
And thought their girls the fairest, 

Though a thousand sylphs were by ; 
And we deemed that scene of pleasure, 

Was just what life would be, — ■ 
We have learned a harsher measure, 

And turned to grief from glee. 
We have known the heart's deep sorrow, 

Since those happy days were past ; 
We have seen each coming morrow 

Look darker than the last ; 
We have wept in bitter anguish, 

And felt how sharp the sting, 
When some fair, but fragile blossom, 

In our arms lay withering: 
But we've garnered hopes immortal, 

That we knew not of before, 
And yet have hours of gladness, 

Though our girlhood days are o'er. 



23 



178 



THANKS FOR A BOQUET 



Thanks for thy gift, my gentle friend, 

Thy lovely gift of blushing flowers ; 
Methinks a voice amid them, tells 

Of smiling skies, and sunny hours ; 
Thy treasured offering's sweet perfume, 

Bears me in fancy far away 
To gardens redolent of bloom, 

And all the charms of summer day : 
The zephyr breaths to fan my brow, 
That come but with my fancy now. 



THANKS FOR A BOQUET, 179 

But not alone of smiling skies, 

Or zephyr's fragrant breath they tell ; 
A tone they have, which more I prize 

Than painted leaf, or perfumed bell ; 
They whisper me, these blushing flowers, 

That Friendship culled the fresh boquet, 
To cheer the sick one's languid hours, 

And cheat the weary time away. 
They whisper, kindness, sympathy, 
Have yet a home, dear friend, with thee. 

Ah ! well I love their pleasant tones, 

Perchance unheard by other ears ; 
But to my listening heart they speak, 

My heart their silent language hears. 
Then let me thank thee for thy gift, 

Thy blooming gift of fragrant flowers ; 
They come like angel visitants, 

To cheer my sick one's languid hours, 
And on each leaf can fancy frame 
The letters of thy gentle name. 



180 



THE FIRST SNOW. 



Thy mantle white is on the senseless earth, 

Spirit of Winter — ~ old Eolus rude 

Pipes from his northern home in fiercest mood ; 
And o'er the crisped wreaths, with shouts of mirth, 
And chiming bells, and laughter ringing free, 

Glides the swift sleigh ; while merry urchins play, 
Tossing the frozen balls in heart-felt glee, 

Or forming uncouth shapes of monsters grim, 
To melt like youthful hopes, when next the ray 

Of noontide streams on each misshapen limb. 
The naked branches wear a spotless vest — 

While through the window infant faces peep, 

Lured from their downy beds and early sleep, 
Wondering to mark the earth in wintry garments drest. 



181 



TO 



We learned to love in life's gay spring, 
When radiant sunshine lit our way ; 

When Hope, like bird upon the wing, 
Soared up, and on, throughout the day ; 

When earth was bright as earth could be, 

And nought might dim our constancy. 



And now life's fragrant summer-time 
Upon our path its light hath poured ; 

But Hope forgets her airy clime, 

Nor soars so high as once she soared : 

Yet beat our hearts, as warm, as true, 

As when the merry springtide flew. 



182 



But shall we love when falling leaves 
The autumn of our lives disclose ? 

When Time his silver frost-work weaves, 
O'er tress of gold, and cheek of rose ? 

When eyes grow dim, and sadly say, 

How all things fair must pass away ? 



Shall we love on through wintry hours, 
Our pleasant journey nearly done ? 

When failing limbs, and weakened powers, 
Proclaim how near our set of sun ? 

When youth's gay visions all are o'er, 

And come to light our steps no more ? 



Oh ! doubt it not — Time cannot chill 
The passion of our youthful hearts, 

A holy flame, 'twill brighten still, 
Its living radiance ne'er departs ; 

I feel, I know, its power must last 

'Till even life itself be past. 



183 



Oh! doubt it not — like some fair tide 
That sparkles in the morning light, 

Yet keeps its course, as deep, as wide, 

Though dark may prove the coming night, 

So shall the love that blest our prime, 

Flow on, through every change of time. 



184 



TO THE MOON. 



Fair mistress Moon, that up on high 

With many a brilliant star, 
Goes sailing through the midnight sky — 

Pray tell me what you are ? 
I long to have a nearer view, 
To scan thy beauties through and through. 



I see a face in thee, sweet Moon, - 

Art thou a curious elf, 
Who look'st to find upon our earth 

Some fair one like thyself? 
Or hast thou but a wish to see 
What passes in society ? 



TO THE MOON. 185 



And prithee, lady pure and bright, 
What doth thy piercing eye 

Discover, by the witching light 
Thy gentle beams supply ? 

Pray tell me, mild and beauteous one, 

What hath it ever gazed upon ? 



No answer ? — art thou speechless then ? 

Upon this earth thou'lt find, 
Fair lady Moon, that silence is 

No fault of woman-kind : 
We've tongues, and we can use them too, 
As I shall plainly prove to you. 



Strange thoughts come o'er me when I think 

Of all thou'st witnessed here ; 
The thousand, thousand years thou'st rolled, 

Unwearied in thy sphere ; 
Surely thou art a wonderous creature, 
N ot to grow old in form or feature. 
24 



186 TO THE MOON. 

Thou wor'st the same soft silvery hue, 
When first thy beams were given 

To bless a sinless world, and night 
Curtained the new-made heaven ; 

When mother Eve looked up and praised 

Thy light to Adam as she gazed. 



And since that time, what mighty change 
Thy watching eye hath seen ; 

And yet, thou'rt ever moving on 
With the same quiet mien. 

Does not thy knowledge turn thy brain ? 

'Tis sometimes so, when wit we gain. 



And thou art worshipped here by all 
All hail thee with delight ; 

And who, for half the glare of day, 
Would give thy blessed light ? 

Nature looks fairer, and thy sway 

Old ocean owns, the wise ones say. 



TO THE MOON. 187 



The lover, when thine orb is full, 
In many a lady's bower, 

Will tell a tale in burning words, 
Of Love's subduing power ; 

And swear by thy soft beams, to be 

A pattern of fidelity. 



And many a poet like myself 
Will woo thee in his song, 

And sing perhaps more pleasantly, 
Nor keep thee half so long : 

But lady Moon — so mild and dear, 

I have a secret for thine ear, 



Don't whisper it to idle airs, 

Lest they should waft it 
But, there is somebody I love, 

From thy poor votary gone : 
I'm sure that if he gaze on thee, 
His thought is fixed the while, on me. 



on 



188 TO THE MOON. 

He's gone across the deep blue sea 
For months, perhaps for years ; 

I try to smile, but often, Moon, 
I cannot hide my tears : 

We loved as playmates — was it strange 

Time our affection could not change ? 



And when he asked my beating heart, 

In tones so sweet and low, 
And told me, we so soon must part, 

I could not answer " No." 
Did' st mark the hour? — I know thine eye 
Was peeping from thy home on high. 



And can'st thou, on thy silver beams, 

Kind messages convey ? 
Then tell him I am all his own, 

Although so far away ; 
And say, beneath thy gentle light, 
My dreams will be of him to-night. 



189 



THE MAIDEN TO HER MIRROR. 



Thou tellest a pleasant tale to me — 

Thou sayest my form is fair, 
And over a brow of spotless white 

Is braided my silken hair : — 
That mine eye is bright, as the stars that lie 

Far off in their depths of blue ; 
That my cheek hath stolen the rose's dye, 

And my lip the ruby's hue. 



190 THE MAIDEN TO HER MIRROR. 

And thou wert the first, long years ago, 

In my childhood's laughing hour, 
To whisper a thought of beauty bright, 

Though I guessed not of its power : 
But one hath knelt at that beauty's shrine, 

And profFered a noble heart ; 
And the word is spoken in holy faith, 

From which we may never part. 



And to-morrow — then kind hands will deck 

My form for the altar's side ; 
And with murmured wishes of health and joy, 

They will hail me, a happy bride. 
Wilt thou give me back as bright a cheek 

As leans to thy surface now ? 
Will thy shining bosom, old mirror, speak 

Of a pale but lovely brow? 

Wilt thou say beneath my bridal veil, 
Half hid by their swelling tears, 

Mine eyes beam forth with the liquid light 
Of my girlhood's happy years '? 



THE MAIDEN TO HER MI It ROR, 191 

It will be our parting, oh, mirror bright ! 

Our last fond parting then ; 
And as years roll o'er us, it yet may be 

We shall never meet again. 

For my home, it must now be far away 

O'er the waves of the bright blue sea ; 
But oh ! will the vales of that verdant land 

E'er seem as my own to me ? 
The love of a trusting heart I know 

Can make each spot seem fair ; 
But shall I not sigh for the loving smiles, 

And the sweet home-voices there ? 

My mother's eye, will it come to bless 

Her child with its tender, gleams ? 
Shall I yearn for my sister's gentle words, 

Yet hear them alone in dreams ? 
Shall my father's blessing, my brother's tone, 

No longer greet mine ear ? 
And is love so deep in my heart for him, 

I can part with the loved ones here ? 



192 THE MAIDEN TO HER MIRROR. 

Yet oft will they come to my chamber lone, 

And gaze on thy glossy face ; 
Would I might stamp upon thee, old friend, 

The features they love to trace : 
But not forgotten, though all unseen, 

Will the parted dear one be ; 
I shall dwell in faithful hearts, I ween, 

Oh mirror ! if not in thee. 



193 



CONSTANCY 



It is like love — Oh ! love should be 

An ever changing thing : 
The love that /could worship, must 

Be ever on the wing. 

L. E. 



Not so for me — I could not brook 

A love that changed with every wind : 
A colder tone, a calmer look, 

A passion less refined ; 
Though deep might flow the blessed tide, 
I would not that its waves aside 
Should turn a moment, though I knew 
Again they'd seek the channel true. 
25 



194 CONSTANCY. 

I could not bear an altered eye, 
I could not list a careless lay — 

A thoughtless tone, whose vague reply 
Told the heart far away : 

I would not other lips should praise, — 

I would not other eyes should gaze, — 

If one, and only one alone, 

Felt the deep love that matched my own. 



I would be prized all else above, 
Valued as some peculiar star ; 

Worshipped, as if no other gem 
Lit the blue arch afar. 

Mine, the heart's deep devotion be, 

Unchanging, half idolatry ; 

The polar beam, whose light divine 

Nor sets, nor fades, — such love be mine. 



1839. 



195 



TO ANNIE 



A VALENTINE. 



Chilled by winter's frosts and snows, 
Where hath fled the summer rose ? 
Hath it lost its flush of pride ? 
Are its red leaves scattered wide ? 
No — its beauties would you seek, 
Lo, they bloom on Annie's cheek. 



196 TO ANNIE. 

What hath hid the gentle star 

In its azure home afar? 

Have the clouds with envious blight, 

Curtained all its pearly light? 

Look not for the star on high — 

See, it beams in Annie's eye. 

-Summer sunbeams, where are ye ? 
Bring once more your joys to me : 
Must we sigh, alas ! in vain, 
For your ardent glance again ? 
Ask not summer suns the while, 
If ye bask in Annie's smile. 

Who so true, so fair as she ? 
• Whom adored so faithfully ? 
Airy shape, and faultless feature, 
Rivaling every mortal creature — 
Tell me, what can most beguile ? 
Annie's cheek, and eye, and smile. 



197 



WINTER 



"I deem thee not unlovely, though thou com'st 
With a stern visage." 

Mks. Sigoubnev. 



I love thee, Winter, though thy name 

Comes harshly on the ear, 
And foes have called thy frosty face 

The saddest of the year: 
They say thy tears in hailstones fall — 
That bitter blasts are in thy call — 
That all things shudder, when thy cry 
In the wild tempest rushes by. 



198 WINTER. 

Well, though thy face may wear a frown, 

It is not always so ; 
And though thou send'st in plenty down, 
On barren heath or peopled town, 

The pale unsullied snow — 
Full many a pleasure does it bring, 
Upon its silent flakey wing : 
The merry hills ring out amain, 
When it lies thick on hill and plain. 

Thou fling'st thy jewels on the bough 

Of every naked tree, 
And hang' st thy pendant diamonds, where 

The poorest hind may see ; 
And oft thou giv'st us skies as fair 
As gentle Spring is wont to wear ; 
While pleasantly the soft winds play 
Through all the clear and balmy day. 

The Christmas faggot blazing high — 
* The games of wonderous skill — 
And oft the dismal legend told, 
Of nightly ghost or robber bold, 
To make } r oung bosoms thrill ; — 



WINTER. 



199 



The gambols in the new fall'n snow — 
The white balls tossing to and fro, — 
These prove thou hast some joys to bless, 
Though thou art famed for dreariness. 

Then let the roses cease to bloom 

Beside my cottage door ; 
And wild birds seek a greener home 

Upon some distant shore ; — 
The rose of love still blooms for me, 
With all its wonted fragrancy ; 
And fond affection hath a tone, 
The greenwood songsters ne'er have known. 

The summer's flush, its glowing breath, 
Its breezes, fruits, and flowers, 

Have charms for all — but still I prize 
The dark and wintry hours : 

Storms may be thine, and cold, and snow, 

And keen the whist'ling winds may blow ; 

And yet, though wanting many a grace, 

Winter, I love thy rugged face. 



200 



THE LOVE LETTER 



SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE. 



Lady, in thy summer bower, 
Sure, enchantment rules the hour ! 
All around thee seems so bright 
With the sunbeam's mellowed light, 
Through the twisted branches streaming 
On each leaf and floweret gleaming — 
Resting on thy dark brown hair, 
In a crown a queen might wear ; 
And a robe of golden light 
Flinging o'er thy shoulder white. 



THE LOVE LET T E R . 201 

Pleasant breezes fan thy cheek, 
Blushing flowers thy care bespeak; 
Birds upon the branching tree 
Warble forth their melody ; 
And the hum-bird glances by, 
With the gauze-winged butterfly, 
Tossing in the summer air, 
As bright gems were floating there. 
All is lovely, fair, and free — 
Nature's banquet spread for thee. 

Vain each charm that haunts thy bower : 
They have lost their wonted power ; 
Flowers may blossom, birds may sing, 
Zephyrs roam on fragrant wing, 
Insects hum, and sunbeams fall, 
Thou art heedless of them all. 
What to thee the azure sky ? 
What the song-bird's minstrelsy ? 
What the flush of summer day ? 
Thou, in thought, art far away, 
Roving with thy distant lover, 
Other climes and countries over. 
26 



202 THE LOVE LETTER. 

On the written page thine eye 
Resteth now most earnestly, 
As its burning words reveal 
Love, nor time nor change may steal 
Love in every line confessed; 
Gentle maiden thou art blessed ! 
Bird, and flower, and sunny gleam, 
Cannot lure thee from thy dream. 



203 



A SIGH FOR THE PAST 



"Alas ! for the sordid propensities of modern days, when everything is coined into gold, and 
this once holiday planet of ours, is turned into a mere working-day world." 

Washington Irving. 



Oh ! for the days of chivalry, 

For a knight of heroic deed, 
With a glittering helmet on his head, 

And a fiery, prancing steed. 
I'm tired of beaux with beaver hats, 

And coats of black or blue — 
Oh ! for the days of old romance, 

And their mail-clad heroes too. 



204 A SIGH FOR THE PAST. 

It must have been a pleasant thing 

To dwell in a castle high, 
With a draw-bridge o'er a deep dark moat, 

And turrets against the sky ; 
To have a warder on the wall, 

And a banner waving free, 
And a lover who came from the Holy-land, 

And wooed upon bended knee. 

I wish I had lived in those glorious days, 

Some centuries ago, 
With good broad lands and plenty of gold, 

And a will of my own, I trow ; 
A tapestried chamber with secret doors, 

And galleries lone and long ; 
Such as I've read of a thousand times, 

In volumes of tale and song. 

I'd have braided the locks of my raven hair, 
And woven each shining tress 

With the richest gems of the earth and sea, 
To add to my loveliness. 



A SIGH FOR THE PAST. 205 

And over embroidery rich and rare, 
Have bent through the livelong day, 

And a little maiden at my feet, 
With a lute and a pleasant lay. 

And I would have graced the tournament 

Where knights were in the list, 
Or swept along with a merry train, 

And a falcon on my wrist : 
I'd have had a milk-white palfrey too, 

And a page in green and gold ; 
And tales of love should have lulled mine ear, 

By a wandering harper told. 

I'm weary of all the things I see, 

Of steeples and chimnies high ; 
Of houses standing in long straight rows, 

With carriages rolling by ; 
I hate a modern residence, 

Fine sofas and Brusseled floors, 
And a chandelier from the ceiling hung, 

Or a mansion with folding doors. 



206 A SIGH FOR THE PAST. 

And I must dress quite a-la-mode, 

From bonnet to silken hose, 
And follow the fashions of foolish France, 

For a reason nobody knows : 
I have to walk with outrageous men, 

Who I'm sure I could never love, 
With monstrous whiskers, and little canes, 

And hand in a hosskin glove. 

Oh ! for the golden days gone by, 

The days of old romance, 
When there were knights in armor clad, 

With shield, and spear, and lance ; 
When to noble dames and ladies fair, 

They bent the willing knee : — 
Would I had lived in those glorious times, 

For they were the days for me ! 



207 



SERENADE 



List while I sing to thee, 

Fairest and best ; 
Chase thy sweet slumbers, 

Awake from thy rest — 
Hear the soft melodies 

Floating afar, 
Breathed from the strings 

Of my tuneful guitar. 



208 



SERENADE, 



Steal from thy pillow, 

The casement unclose ; 
Lift the light curtain 

That veils thy repose — 
Softly the moonbeam 

Its mantle will throw, 
O'er thy fair tresses 

And ivory brow. 

Part but one bud 

From the jessamine spray, 
Press to thy bosom, 

Then toss it away — 
Swift through the lattice 

Kind zephyr will bring 
Love's fairy token, 

To bless while I sing. 



SERENADING. 



BY MRS. M. N\ II i«iv U.E. 



What merry girl, escaped from the restraints of 
the fttrsery or the school-room, has not known the 
joysKa serenade ? The witching notes of a melo- 
dip'uf?' flute, " discoursing most eloquent music," 

ating out on the stilly air of a midsummer night, 

ften the moon was riding gloriously in heaven, and 

irery object seemed to sleep beneath the silvery 
^mantle she had thrown over them? Who has not 
,felt the delight of gazing from a half-opened casement 
'f»n some graceful cavalier below, who struck the 
trembling strings of a guitar, and aroused the ladye 
of his love from her slumbers with a strain of tender 
, melancholy, disturbing meanwhile the quiet repose 
of all sensible, well-disposed people, who uttered per- 
haps, an imprecation upon moonlight minstrels, and 
turned to seek once more the balmy sleep so unhap- 
pily broken. Years ago serenading was the very soul 
of romance, and even now, in this utilitarian age, 
when men lo\?e the jingling of silver coin better than 
any other music, there is a lingering touch of roman- 
tic association connected with the word itself, which 
throws a charm around it. We are in thought with 
the Spanish knight, beneath the shadow of the Al- 
hambra, or floating with the Venetian gondolier by 
the stately palaces of the City of the Sea ; one cannot 
help being a little sentimental now and then, and I 
know not any thing so likely to awaken it, as moon- 
light and music. 

Shall I tell you a sf ory of serenading ? You do not 
answer, lady, though your blue eye is resting, per- 
haps half-unconsciously, upon this idle page, and so, 
" as silence gives consent," I proceed. 

" Mary, let me tell you a secret — a grand secret," 
whispered my younger sister, as she came bounding 
into the room, with her usual light step. 

"And what is it, Laura? Something very im- 
portant, if I read your eyes aright." 

"Yes, very important, and very delightful! We 
are to have a serenade to-night ! Won't it be charm- 
ing? Such lovely weather, and the moon at full. 
Charles is coming — Cousin Charles — and Arthur L." 

" Delightful, indeed !" I answered, and my sister 
proceeded to relate how and when she had become 
possessed of this valuable information. 

Laura and I were both in our teens, both full of ro- 
mance and poetry, and the acknowledged rivals of 
our richer, though not more aspiring neighbors, the 
Misses G., who occupied a sumptuous mansion on 
the opposite side of the street, and in whose eyes we 
were now, as we hoped, destined to shine, the 
heroines of a serenade. We spent, moreover, a 
11 



goodly portion of our time at the looking-glass, 
which we believed to be the most useful, sensible, 
indispensable article of household furniture, and as — 
in Laura's case, at least — the said looking-glass told, 
like hope, a flattering tale, we were quite satisfied 
with our outward appearance, and of course consi- 
dered our serenaders — two law-students — as young 
gentlemen of decided taste and talent, particularly 
as Arthur L. was known to scribble verses some- 
times, and, in Troubadour style, to sing them himself. 

It may be imagined, then, how anxiously we an- 
ticipated our promised pleasure, which was not a 
little enhanced by the reflection that the Misses G. — 
if they did not sleep too soundly — would, or might 
be, somewhat envious of our good fortune, and the 
night came on too slowly for our impatient ears. At 
ten o'clock we were ready for bed, but we did no t 
seek our pillows. We sat in the open window, and 
looked out upon the long street, flooded with moon- 
light, and watched the gradual closing of the houses 
in the neighborhood, till by-and-by the city clocks 
sounded the hour of midnight ; the streets were de- 
serted, save by a solitary watchman, and all was 
silent around us — the world itself seemed asleep. 
We talked with subdued voices as we leaned from 
the window, till another hour had passed, and then 
the faith we had cherished in the valor of our young 
knights began to diminish, as our physical powers 
became more and more influenced by the wand of 
Morpheus. 

" Ah ! I fear they will not come," said Laura, with 
a sigh which very nearly resembled a yawn, " and I 
am so sleepy. Let us go to bed, and the music will 
surely awaken us." 

"No, no," I said, "not yet. Hark! I hear foot- 
steps .'" and as I spoke, down the quiet street came a 
military band, their instruments glittering in the 
moonbeams, and headed by several officers in uni- 
form. They stopped directly opposite, and suddenly 
awoke the sleepers far and near with the spirit-stir- 
ring music of the " Star-Spangled Banner." 

" Delightful !" we both exclaimed ; " but this can- 
not be intended for us." 

Alas, no ! Our wealthy neighbors, our rivals, 
claimed as their own this enchanting melody, and 
we listened with enraptured ears, though a little 
jealousy crept, meanwhile, into our hearts, as one 
martial air succeeded another, each in turn more 
lovely than the last ; and when at length the door of 
Mr. G's mansion was thrown open, and the whole 
band disappeared, to partake, no doubt, of some sub- 



|\0/t-C*v. 



122 



GRAHAMS MAGAZINE. 



stantial refreshment prepared within, we looked at 
each other in dismay, horror-stricken at the triumph 
of our neighbors, and our own defeat. 

" I shall certainly go to bed," said Laura, half cry- 
ing with vexation, " for they will not come now, I 
am certain ;" and I felt quite willing to acquiesce, 
for my own lids were pressed down by the leaden 
finger of the drowsy god, when suddenly again, but 
now beneath our own window, a guitar was touched 
by a lively hand, and a voice we well knew as that 
of Arthur L., sang thus — 

Softly falls the moonlight — 

Let its gentle beams 
Call thee, lovely Laura, 

From thy peaceful dreams ; 
Night's sweet noon is round thee, 

Chase dull sleep away — 
See, the stars above thee, 

Keep bright holiday. 
Swiftly fly the hours, 

Soon the moon will fade ; 
"Wake, and listen, lady, 

To my serenade. 

Hark ! the merry measures 1 

Far away they float, 
Echo but repeats them 

From her mellow throat. 
Earth is dressed in beauty, 

Who its charms would miss ? 
What can daylight give us, 

Half so fair as this? 
Then, ere night is over, 

Eve the moonbeams fade, 
Wake, and listen, lady, 

To my serenade. 

Laura was but fifteen, and her bright eye grew 
brighter as this school-boy lay was sung to her de- 
lighted ear. To find her own name enshrined in the 
young poet's strain, and given to the summer winds 
by a voice not unmelodious in its cadences, was 






surely enough to fire the fancy and flutter the heart 
of a wiser maiden than my pretty sister, and we 
stood with half-suspended breath intently listening, 
when the Venetian blinds of our next door neighbor 
were thrown open, a dainty white night-cap protruded 
therefrom, and the shrill voice of Miss Barbara Barnes 
exclaimed — 

"For mercy's sake, boys ! have done -with that ever- 
lasting screaming and twang-twanging; I've been 
kept awake this hour with the noise over the way, and 
now, when I was just falling asleep, you must begin." 

" The music was n't intended for you, old lady," 
said the laughing Arthur, as he played a lively pre- 
lude, and began another song. 

" Have done, I tell you !" cried the enrag^ 
bara, " or I will call the watch. Shame on ; 
disturb decent folks in this manner ! Can 't you let 
those poor young things sleep in peace ?" 

" Gaily the Troubadour touched his guitar !" 

Sang the undaunted Arthur, in despite of Miss Bab's 
threats, and might have concluded his song, had not 
another head popped from another window, and a 
gruff voice called out — 

" We 've had enough music for one night — so you 'd 
better be off with your banjo, young fellows !" 

Alas ! for the romance of our serenade. It was all 
over now. Arthur and Cousin Charles angrily re- 
torted. The gruff voice joined Miss Barbara's shrill 
tones in a threat to call the watch ; heads with caps, 
and heads without caps, peeped from various case- 
ments, and our chagrined serenaders, finding that 
they were likely to be overpowered by those who 
had no souls for their sweet sounds, at last marched 
off to the music of their own guitar ; while poor 
Laura, vexed, mortified, and disappointed, and myself 
but little less perplexed, sought our pillows, vowing 
vengeance on Miss Barbara Barnes, and fell asleep 
to dream of a serenade. 



DACOTA WOMAN AND ASSINIBOIN GIRL. 



(with an elegant steel engraving.) 



The Dacotas, as they call themselves, or the Sioux 
of the French, are one of the most numerous tribes of 
the North American Indians. They number about 
20,000. If the Assiniboins, who are of the same origin, 
and who number 25,000, are included, we have for all 
the Dacotas 45,000 souls. They live mostly between 
the Mississippi and Missouri, but extend across the 
latter river to the Black Hills. About half of them, 
comprising those on the Mississippi, live in fixed 
habitations: the others roam about over the prairies, 
as far westward as the territory of the Crows, and 
sometimes even to the Rocky Mountains. They 
have more strongly marked countenances, and higher 
fheek bones, than the other Indians of the Missouri, 



Their women, when young, are not ill-looking. 
Our engraving represents the principal wife of a 
Dacota of the branch of Yanktons, one of the three 
great families into which the Sioux are divided. She 
is accompanied by an Assiniboin girl. Her costume 
is a very elegant leather dress, with stripes and bor- 
ders of azure and white beads, and polished metal 
buttons, and trimmed as usual at the bottom with 
fringes, round the ends of which lead is twisted, so 
that they tinkle at every motion. The summer robe 
of this woman was dressed smooth on both sides, and 
painted red and black on a yellowish white ground. 
In an early number we shall go into full details re- 
specting the Dacotas. 






THE VILLAGE COQUETTE 



A COUNTRY STORY. 



BY MRS. M. N. 



The limpid waters of a small and shining stream, 
which, having its source in the mountains, passes 
through wood and meadow-lands to find an outlet in 
the Hudson, course merrily over the smooth pebbles, 
and turn the wheel of an old mill, at the quiet, and 
somewhat secluded, village of B. We call it secluded, 
because a mail-stage, with its usual complement of 
passengers and luggage, only enlivens it twice in 
every week, and the Inn, or in more refined parlance, 
the Hotel, has not yet attained that climax of elegance 
which renders a number of colored waiters, or a table 
set with silver forks, absolutely indispensable. Ebene- 
zer Turner, the master of the mansion, is a plain man, 
and keeps a plain, well-ordered house, and his wife 
and daughter, who have seldom been in New York, 
and never at Saratoga, manage their own household 
matters with neatness and discretion, and make the 
very best pumpkin pies to be found beyond the 
boundaries of Connecticut. 

But our business lies not with the village Inn, just 
now, or with the landlord's pretty daughter ; turn we 
to the old mill, and introduce the reader, with his per- 
mission, to the young and not ill-looking fellow, who 
is whistling a lively air within its well powdered 
door-way. The bright sun of an October morning is 
shining upon him, and his brown cheek, full lip, and 
dark hazel eye, are lit with a smile of great meaning, 
as if his thoughts dwelt on pleasant things, and colored 
the landscape on which he gazed with fresh hues of 
delight. His eye is roving carelessly over a distant 
prospect, through which courses the pure stream he 
loves so well, but amid broad fields and dark wood- 
lands that stretch as it were to the horizon, he heeds 
no object particularly, save the neat though somewhat 
antiquated dwelling house of old Samuel Morewood. 
Its white gable and high-peaked roof, its close paling 
to protect a small flower-garden, but above all a 
certain window, from which streams a snowy curtain 
in the morning breeze, attracts the eye of the young 
miller, and perhaps makes his heart beat rather 
tumultuously, for a maiden form glances a moment 
before it, pauses, looks for an instant from the case- 
ment, and then hastily drawing the curtain, disap- 
pears. 

" Truely, Kate, you are in haste with your morning 
business, that you cannot give a poor fellow one nod, 
who has been standing here this hour to get a peep at 
your bonny face," said the young man, as with a half- 
mortified,' half-pleased expression on his honest 
features, he turned from the door- way. " But some 
new whim is on, I suppose," he added with a sigh, 
"and Harry Lee must wait till it's off again, for 
favor." 



"Because Harry Lee is a fool to let a vain girl 
know he is in love with her, and not bind her down 
to a promise ; or think of somebody else for a wife," 
said a voice at his elbow. 

"I did not think I had spoken so.loud, Jim," said 
Lee, as he extended his hand to an old friend. " They 
say walls have ears, and there are some things one 
would n't like even the walls of an old mill should 
hear." 

" Then you should keep your thoughts from coming 
out of your mouth, Harry," said his friend laughing. 
" And so you are just as much smitten with that silly 
girl as ever, hey ? I thought her last prank would 
have cured you of such folly." 

" Not a bit, Jim, not a bit," replied the miller, while 
a blush deepened for a moment the hue. of his sun- 
burnt cheek. " I know I am a fool, but I can 't help 
it. Kate Morewood is the only girl who ever hit my 
fancy, and it sometimes takes more than an unkind 
word to drive love out of a man's heart." 

" So it seems, at least in your case," said the young 
farmer ; " but can 't ye find another girl in the village, 
Harry, as comly and as smart as Kate Morewood? 
Isn't there many a bright lass who comes to meeting 
Sunday after Sunday, that would make a thrifty wife, 
and would not say nay to a jolly miller like you ?" 

"Perhaps there is," said Lee; "but I've never 
thought of any one else. A year ago, when I danced 
at your wedding with Kate, my heart took fire with 
her bright black eyes, and I' ve never been able to 
get over it. She comes into my dreams whether I 
will or no ; and when I go to meeting, why plague 
on 't I can 't mind the sermon if she is there." 

"Well, well, Harry, I've heard of many strange 
things in my day, but never did I know a fine young 
fellow with a mill and some snug acres to begin the 
world, running mad with love before. Now I don 't 
believe for fifty miles round there is a happier man 
than I am, and sure enough I thought myself despe- 
rately in love with Fanny Bell before I married her, 
but never was I so overcome that I could not attend 
to the minister in sermon time, and did n't dream as 
often, and maybe a little oftener, of a trip I made to 
New York just before the day was fixed, to buy a gold 
ring and some wedding finery." 

Harry Lee sighed. 

" Poh, poh, man, don't sigh and look so dismal, old 
Morewood's girl is not the only one in B. ; why I could 
name a dozen to you just as good, and a little better to 
my fancy. Beg your pardon, Harry, but she is what 
they call a co-co- coquette, that 's the word, giving you 
plenty of smiles one day, and the next flirting off with 
another; such a girl is not worth having, wouldn't 



256 



GRAHAM S MAGAZINE 



make any sort of a wife ; not worth the minister's fee ; 
think of somebody else, man, think of somebody 
else." 

" I can 't," said the young miller. 

"You wont," said James Grey, "that's the truth 
of it. Just shut up this door, Harry, and open the 
other, 'tis quite as handy. And now I think of it, that 
is the very thing. From that door you may look 
straight down the road and see friend Jemima May's 
house, and you know there is not a prettier girl in the 
village, than her niece, Susan. So tidy, and notable, 
and sweet spoken. I wonder I didn't think of her 
before." 

" Pshaw !" said Harry, pettishly, " she is a quaker." 

" Well, and what then? suppose she does say thee 
and thou, sometimes. She carries a true heart in her 
bosom, anyway, which is more than some folks do, 
I'm thinking." 

"Plain, or pretty, true or false," said the miller, 
somewhat nettled by the concluding words of his 
companion ; " she is not Kate Morewood." 

" No, and I 'm glad on 't," said James Grey, bluntly, 
"and that's enough. Come, Harry, set your mill 
going, and help me in with my grist, I can 't waste 
any more time with you, for you will be a fool, I see, 
in spite of a friend's advice ; only I know if I was 
Harry Lee, and had two such near neighbors, it 
would 'nt be Kate Morewood I 'd choose, that's all." 

James Grey, when he called our heroine a coquette, 
had only spoken the iruth, and in sober sadness we 
must acknowledge that Kate loved admiration a little 
too well. But then it must be remembered, in ex- 
tenuation of so glaring a fault, that she was in reality 
a very pretty girl, much prettier than any of the girls 
in E. Was only nineteen, and had already received 
three offers. Yes, three of the village swains had 
ventured to tell her they would be hers as long as 
grass grew, and water ran, and this was conquest 
quite sufficient to turn the brain of an older and wiser 
head than our friend Kate, who boasted of no wit, 
save the flash of a quick eye, and the joyous laugh of 
a merry lip. 

Kate had not been long in disco/ : ng that she held 
an undisputed sway over the hear' Harry Lee, and 
of all her lovers she certainly prized him the most. 
But then if she accepted him now she must give up 
all future conquest, and as she adjusted her dress at a 
small shining mirror, and twined a particularly be- 
coming curl round her finger; a voice whispered, 
there were others who might yet acknowledge the un- 
diinmed lustre of her dark eyes, and the freshness of 
her rosy lips, and although Harry Lee was the best 
looking fellow in the village, and Kate knew, and so 
did everybody else, that he was in love with her, yet 
she bestowed only so many of her smiles upon him as 
would still hold him captive, resolving, when she had 
broken a few more hearts, to be his entirely, and for- 
get all the rest. 

But although to the world without she seemed as gay 
and fickle as the gilded butterfly that fluttered over her 
garden roses; in the sanctuary of her own home, Kate 
Morewood shone in a new character. Industry, which 
might have rivaled the bee, marked each hour, and 



cheerfulness, " that nymph of healthiest hue," shed a 
perpetual sunshine upon the small, but well-regulated, 
domicil over which she presided. An only child, her 
old father doted on her, and his affection was returned 
with equal warmth. How mindful she was of his 
comfort, how carefully and readily she prepared his 
breakfast, sure to supply the bowl of fresh milk and 
hasty pudding which he loved so well at dinner, to 
meet him with a dry jacket, when at the welcome 
sound of the horn he came in heated from the harvest 
field or garden, and her hand it was who boiled the 
egg for his supper, because no one could please him 
but herself, and she liked to do it. On Sundays she 
combed his thin gray locks with peculiar care, sprink- 
ling over them the least atom of powder, to give him 
a rather more genteel appearance than his ne'ghbors. 
and then, with her arm linked in his, how demurely 
she stepped off to meeting, conscious all the while 
that she was " the observed of all observers," and 
anxiously waited for by more than one spruce young 
fellow at the church door, casting sly glances, mean- 
while, from beneath her pink bonnet, to ascertain if 
Harry Lee were not among the foremost of them 
all. 

Such was Kate Morewood, the miller's idol ; turn 
we now, indulgent reader, to his nearer neighbors. 
If ever gentleness and affection lodged in the human 
breast, or charity and piety made a home on earth, 
they dwelt in the bosom of sweet Susy May. Susan 
was an orphan, who in her Aunt Jemima, a strict and 
conscientious member of the society of Friends, had 
found a mother's love and a mother's care, from her 
earliest infancy till the present hour, when the flowers 
of her eighteenth summer had just faded away. Simple 
in her tastes, quiet in her manners, and orderly in her 
habits, the. young quakeress lived in a daily round of 
home duties, that were seldom varied except by an 
occasional tea-drinking with some of their village 
friends, or a visit to New York, when Jemima attended 
yearly meeting. Yet Susan was not without her en- 
joyments ; her poultry, her bees, her flowers, all were 
a continual source of pleasure, and like an unruffled 
lake, her pure and peaceful heart gave back the blue 
skies and images of natural beauty, which in succession 
flitted over it. Susy was no belle, but she won, as if 
it had been a thing of course, the love and kindness oi 
all who knew her, and many gazed with admiring 
eyes upon the sweet face that was shaded by her 
quaker bonnet, while one, at least, had thought there 
was not its match in the wide world. 

It was the evening of thai same October day on 
which our story opened, that the candles were lit. and 
a small fire burned cheerfully on the hearth, in the 
neat sitting room of Jemima May, where Susan was 
setting out the tea-cups, and placing the fair wheaten 
bread and pure butler, of her own make, upon the 
table. While Aunt Mima — as she usually styled her 
adopted parent — employed herself with her knitting. 
Something certainly had happened, for the good 
quakeress seemed absorbed in thought, as with infinite 
dexterity she managed the glittering needles, and 
threw the blue homespun yarn over them. Thecolor 
went and came alternately on her usually pale cheek, 



THE VILLAGE COQUETE. 



251 



and her heart did not appear to beat with its wonted 
regular pulsation. 

" Is supper ready, Susy?" she said, at last, " thee 
was later milking than common to-night, I think." 

"All's ready now," replied Susan, as she placed 
the last plate on the table, and set a chair for her 
companion; "I'm sorry I was so late, for thee does 
not seem quite like thyself this evening, I hope thee is 
not ill ?" 

" Nay, the body is in good health," replied Jemima. 

" Then something troubles thy mind, I fear," said 
Susan. "Has any thing happened to vex thee? 
Whatever it may be I hope thee will not hide it from 
me." 

" I have never hid any thing from thee, which it 
concerned thee to know," said the quakeress ; " and I 
now tell thee that I have something for thine ear. 
But finish thy supper first, child, it may be that which 
will destroy thine appetite." 

" Indeed thee has done that already," said Susan 
playfully, " and made me very curious to know thy 
secret." 

" It is a disposition thee shouldst overcome, Susy 
May," said her aunt ; " curiosity is sinful, thee knows. 
We will eat now and talk afterward." 

Although wondering in herself what great secret 
Aunt Mima had to divulge, Susan obeyed, and the 
meal was concluded nearly in silence, and certainly 
, in very little time. Jemima carried her chair back to 
its accustomed place beside the fire, and Susy brought 
a pan of hot water to " wash up." This was speedily 
accomplished, the candles snuffed as closely as pos- 
sible, and taking off her checked apron she brought 
her work and sat down opposite her aunt, saying, 
" now, Aunt Mima, will thee tell me ?" 

" Thee 's over curious yet, Susy," said the good 
old maiden, " but thee shall hear," and fixing her 
eyes steadily on her niece, she continued, " thee knows 
Joseph Crane ; thee knows him to be honest and faith- 
ful, and blest with this world's goods ; he has this day 
asked thee in marriage ; wilt thou be his wife ?" 

Accustomed, as she was, to her aunt's straight for- 
ward manner of procedure, Susan was thunderstruck 
with this announcement, and sat for a moment stupified 
with surprise. The gaunt figure, hollow cheeks, and 
sunken eyes of Joseph Crane, with his straight coat 
and broad beaver, passed rapidly before her, and in 
an instant were contrasted with, what? The athletic 
form and regular features of Harry Lee ; and then, for 
the first time, Susy peeped down into the quiet depths 
of her own heart and made the discovery that the 
young miller was the man, whom of all others she 
would prefer. Yet why should this be? They were 
but neighbors, scarcely friends, never had they ex- 
changed more than a passing word, and yet, there lay 
his image in the very deepest, darkest corner of that 
little heart, and poor Susy, while the flush of pride and 
shame, and regret, tinged her fair neck and brow with 
crimson, suddenly leaned her head on the table, and 
the bright tear-drops gushed through her fingers. 

" Nay, thee must not weep, dear child," said Aunt 
Mima, tenderly ; "I did not promise for thee, thou 
art at liberty to choose for thyself in this matter." 
22* 



But Susy continued to weep, regardless of her aunt's 
assurance. 

" Indeed thee is wrong, thee must not weep any 
longer, Susan," said Jemima, seriously. " Tell me 
what aileth thee." 

" Oh, I am so unhappy," said Susan, raising her head 
from the table and wiping off the large drops that 
glittered on her cheeks. 

"And what should make thee unhappy?" said 
Jemima. " Thee need not give thyself to Joseph, 
though he is a good man ; I tell thee thou art at liberty 
to choose for thyself." 

The thought that she could not, even to her kind 
relative, reveal the true cause of her tears, now oc- 
curred to Susan, and drying her eyes, she said, though 
her voice still trembled, " But perhaps thee wishes me 
to accept him?" 

" Only with thy free consent," replied the quakeress. 
" It would be hard for me to part with thee, but if thee 
wishes to bestow thyself on the young man, I shall 
not say nay." 

" I do not wish to marry any one now," said Susan, 
eagerly ; " I prefer to remain with thee, I could never 
be happy in any other place I am sure. Will thee 
tell Joseph I esteem, but can never love him?" 

" Indeed, thee must tell him that thyself," replied 
Jemima, " for he assured me he would take no denial 
of his request, except from thee." 

"But if I see him he may perhaps ask why I will 
not marry him, and I could not tell him that,' 1 '' said 
Susan, who, unaccustomed to concealment, forgot that 
Aunt Mima had not made the discovery which she 
had herself done. 

" Thee seems to have some reason which thee has 
not told me of," said Jemima. " Thee has always 
been a discreet girl, Susan, and I hope there is not 
some worldly man whom thee prefers to Joseph 
Crane." 

" Oh, thee knows there is scarcely one with whom 

I can speak except James Gray," stammered poor 

Susy. " But — but I cannot tell Joseph that I do not 

like him, so do, dear Mima, tell him for me;" and 

leaning forward j '. imprinted a gentle kiss on the 

cheek of Aunt m . 
lo 1 
" Thee knows how to win thy way with me, Susy," 

said the good maiden, " and I must do thy bidding 
even now. I do feel pity for the young man, since I 
believe he careth for thee, but for myself I rather re- 
joice, not knowing how I could part with thee, thee 
has always been so good and loving. But it is wrong 
to praise." 

Susy kissed once more the pale cheek, down which 
% single tear was silently stealing. " And who could 
fail to be dutiful and loving to one so dear as thee ?" 
she eagerly exclaimed. " Did thee not take me, a 
poor helpless babe, to thine own home, and feed me 
with thine own bread, and be to me as a mother? 
Oh, Aunt Mima, does thee think I can ever forget the 
love I owe to thee ?" 

"Thee should not praise, Susy, it is forbidden, and 
fills the heart with pride," said Jemima, meekly. 
" Think now of thine own affairs ; Joseph will be here 
betimes to-morrow, and I will then tell him thee 



258 



GRAHAM S 



A G A Z I N E. 



cannot show him any favor, having no mind at pre- 
sent to leave old friends." 

" Thee will please inform him very gently of my 
determination," said Susan, " for I would not willingly 
offend him." 

" Joseph will take no offence at plain speaking," 
said Jemima, " and thee knows I use no other mode 
of speech." 

The appearance of a neighbor, who came to engage 
the kind offices of Jemima in watching with a sick 
child, interrupted all further discourse, and having 
arranged her aunt's bonnet and cloak, and received a 
few directions, Susan without regret saw her friends 
depart and was left alone. 

And here too we might pause to moralize upon the 
susceptibility of the female heart, and edify the reader 
with a chapter on the affections ; or we might tell how 
Susy sat down by the fire and resolved to drive Harry 
Lee from her heart and thoughts, and never suffer 
any other mortal man to find an entrance there. But 
fearful of wearying those who do not love long stories, 
we rather pass on to the enlivening scene of a rustic 
dance, to which every body in B. had been invited. 

The wide hall, the best parlor, and even the long, 
low eating-room, or kitchen of Nathaniel Symington's 
house, were filled at an early hour, for the dance was 
preceded by a quilting, where the busy fingers of the 
village girls had been employed since two o'clock in 
the afternoon, and by the time the tables were cleared 
and everv body had eaten more than they wanted, and 
had praised the cake and sweetmeats and other 
niceties of a country tea, and Mrs. Symington had 
pressed them to take something else, when they were 
utterly unable to do so; when all this was gotten 
through, there were nimble feet that longed to be set 
in motion, and a great fluttering of handkerchiefs, and 
sparkling of bright eyes, and clustering together of 
white dresses ; some remarking it was too warm to 
dance, quite, but they really wondered somebody did 
not begin, while the young men gathered in knots 
and whispered each other as to who should make the 
first move, and "guessed" Mr. Symington himself 
would attend to it when he had done talking. 

And among the fair ones of this festive gathering, 
Kate Morewood, as usual, shone the most con- 
spicuously, and in a bewitching blue dress and lace 
tucker, never looked half so pretty in her life, nor 
was Harry lL.ee ever more deeply enamored. Kate 
was, moreover, particularly kind, and consequently 
Harry had nothing to wish for, except, indeed, that it 
had been a wedding, instead of a quilting party, and 
was just making up his mind to settle the matter this 
very evening, yes. or no, when a young girl leaned 
past him and tapping the arm of Lucy Symington, 
whispered — " I 've a piece of news for you, Lucy ; we 
are to have a new beau here to-night, a city gentle- 
man, cousin of the Turners. Mary Turner told me 
he came in the stage to-day, and she will bring him 
with her this evening." 

" Oh ! that is the reason, then, she did not conic to 
the quilting," said Lucy; "well, we'll be civil to 
him, Jane, Since lie's a stranger, anyhow, but be- 
tween you and me, I 'd as lief he 'd staid at home, and 



not come here with his New York airs to spoil our 
fun." 

A remarkably small and effeminate young man, 
with hair and whiskers of a saffron hue, and dressed 
in the extremity of the reigning fashion, at this mo- 
ment entered the hall, attended by the smiling Miss 
Mary Turner, evidently delighted at being the im- 
porter of so rare and valuable an article. She made 
her way through the crowd and introduced to her 
friend Lucy, Mr. Augustus Smith, who bowed very 
low, and smiled very much, and was received by 
Lucy with cold civility and nothing more. 

The quick eye of Kate Morewood had not failed to 
observe the stranger as he entered, and in a few mo- 
ments his name reached her ear, while at the same 
instant an earnest desire to captivate him, took 
possession of her heart. He was not a handsome man 
to be sure, not half as handsome as Harry Lee, for 
Harry did look uncommonly well on this particular 
evening; but then, a city beau! Kate felt it was an 
opportunity not to be lost — they did 'nt come to B. 
every day — and though she did not dream of marry- 
ing the man ; bless you, no! he was 'nt good-looking 
enough for her, yet she could not for her life resist the 
temptation to flirt with him a little, and waited rather 
impatiently till he should discern — as she had no 
doubt he soon would do — the belle of B. 

Farmer Symington, having by this time concluded 
" his talking," now called aloud for the boys to 
"bestir themselves;" and the floor was accordingly 
cleared for dancing. A colored fiddler who had been 
hired from a village ten miles distant, and could play 
a few tunes on an instrument he denominated a violin, 
was now stationed near the wide-mouthed chimney, 
and after a deal of screwing and scraping, fairly 
launched forth into an inspiring air, while the young 
men selected their partners. Harry Lee had taken 
care to secure Kate, and after a little scramble for 
places, a stamp of the foot, and " all ready, gen'lemen" 
from the sable musician, set them in mot'on, and 
although they did not, perhaps, "trip it on the light 
fantastic toe," as the shaking of the old farm-house 
duly testified ; yet they kept good time to the music, 
and made but few mistakes in the well known figures 
of "right and left," "ladies' chain," " forward two," 
et cetera. 

Refreshments followed the dance, and another 
dance succeeded the refreshments, and by this time 
Mr. Smith had asked his cousin who that pretty girl 
was on the opposite side of the room, and declared he 
must be introduced to her, and soon afterward Mary 
Turner came up and presented Mr. Smith to Kate 
Morewood. 

And now Kate had no eyes except for the spruce 
New Yorker. They danced together, and the honest 
country folks gathered round to witness the feats of 
agility displayed by Mr. Smith, and the line style in 
which he led offhis pretty partner, practicing the most 
approved steps, bowing his head in obedience to the 
music; and nourishing his cambric handkerchief 
while lie talked of military balls, private soirees, and 
a hundred other things of which Kate had scarcely 
dreamed before, but which she now imagined must be 



THE V I L L A G 



COQUETTE. 



259 



the height of all enjoyment, particularly if the gentle- 
men upon such occasions were as agreeable as Mr. 
Smith. 

When the music ceased and the dance was over, 
the city beau still maintained the advantage he had 
gained, and took the vacant seat beside his partner, 
whom he helped to some of the cake and gooseberry 
wine, which again went round among the company, 
and when Lee ventured to hope she would not forget 
old friends, but would dance the next time with him, 
she answered carelessly that perhaps she might, if it 
were not too warm and she was not too much 
tired. 

Harry had borne the flirtation of Kate with Mr. 
Smith more patiently than might have been expected, 
but now he was really angry, and inwardly depre- 
cating the fickleness of all women — alas ! how often 
are our whole sex judged by the folly or the failures 
of one — he turned away, and was leaving the room 
when James Gray intercepted him, and insisted on 
pledging him in a glass of the farmer's excellent 
punch. 

" Here 's health and a long life to you, Harry," he 
said, " and a good wife before this time next year, 
since it must be so ;" winking his eye toward Kate as 
he spoke. 

Harry quaffed off the sparkling liquid and was 
moving on, but Gray detained him. 

" Fine chap that with the red whiskers, hey 1 Take 
care he don't catch her, she seems mightily taken in 
with the young dandy." 

" Pshaw !" said Harry, " he 's a fool." 
." Think so myself," replied James, laconically. 

" Let me go," said Lee, " I 'm tired of this 
place." 

" Tired so soon," said Gray; " why, man, you are 
not going home, are you ? Bless me ! you hav n't asked 
Lucy Symington to dance, and she '11 certainly 
expect it." 

"Plague on't," said Lee, impatiently; " I wish I 
had n't come at all." 

" Now do n't be a fool as well as other folks," said 
his friend, laughing. "Dear me, Harry, you don't 
know how to manage a woman, and if Kate More- 
wood ever gets you, why she '11 turn you round her 
finger as easily as the water turns your mill wheel. 
Just you go and flirt with every girl in the room, ask 
'em all to dance, laugh, frolic, make yourself of con- 
sequence, do 'nt give her even a look, and see if she 
does n't cut the dandy in less than no time. Only let 
her find that somebody else likes you, and she '11 give 
her two bright eyes to get you back again." 

Harry Lee was vexed enough for any thing just 
then, and had really started forward with the intention 
of devoting himself to Lucy Symington for the rest of 
the evening, when, as his eye turned instinctively to- 
ward the parties he had left, he witnessed something 
that roused his ire to its highest pitch, and deprived 
him at once of all self-command. Kate had taken 
from her bosom a rose-bud, and after playing with it 
for some moments, suffered Mr. Smith to transfer it 
to the button-hole of his own coat. Now the little 
bud, thus carelessly parted with, had been the last 



crimson blush of a rose-tree which Harry highly 
prized, and he had severed it from the branch that 
evening, to present with his own hand as a simple 
offering of love to the fickle and ungrateful girl. 
Summer had departed bearing with her the blossoms 
which decked the fields and gardens of B., and Harry 
had placed his mother's rose-tree in the low window 
of his own apartment, that the November sun might 
call forth, in season for the expected fete, the red 
leaves of the last lingering bud. How he had watched 
it, and thought the green robe would never unfold and 
display its hidden sweets ; but at last on the long an- 
ticipated day the velvet leaves peeped forth fromtheir 
hiding place, and when he had donned his best attire, 
and surveyed himself in the polished mirror of "the 
best bed-room," he carefully parted the little twig 
which bore his intended gift, and hurried away to the 
scene of his expected enjoyment. 

Kate had received his fragrant present with many 
thanks, telling him it was the only rose she had seen 
in a long while, and when she fastened it in the knot 
of blue ribbon that ornamented her dress, his eyes 
sparkled with delight. But that was all over now. 
The smiles he so fondly imagined he had secured, 
were bestowed upon another, and his gift was thrown 
carelessly aside, as if it had been a wild-flower plucked 
by her own hand from the green bank on which it 
grew. Harry Lee could have borne any thing, per- 
haps, better than this ; but the rose-bud, the cherished 
rose-bud — it seemed almost a sacrilege, and he sprang 
forward with an impulsive energy, to wrest the frail 
token of faithful affection from the hand that had pur- 
loined it ; but, alas ! his good genius had deserted him, 
the sudden turn, the excitement of the moment, and 
perhaps, too, the effect of the farmer's punch, conspired 
againthim; he made one spring, his foot slipped — 
and in the midst of the revellers, before the very eyes 
of his rival, he came to the ground. 

Harry was in no mood to bear ridicule, and loud 
were the shouts of laughter on all sides, but he heard 
no other so distinctly as the merry ring of that 
sweet laugh, which had once been such music to his 
ear. To his bewildered senses, it rose higher than 
the rest, and was echoed a thousand times, but in an 
instant he had recovered his feet, torn the rose-bud 
from the astonished Mr. Smith, and breaking through 
the crowd that encircled him, disappeared. 

Long and severe that night was the conflict in the 
heart of the young miller. He heard the company he 
had left so abruptly, returning in detached parties to 
their own homes, and their voices reached him as 
they broke out in strains of uncontrolled merriment. 
Did he listen for one ever to him the sweetest? No, 
that voice had lost its power, the chain which had so 
long bound him had been severed, and Harry Lee re- 
solved to renounce, then and forever, all thoughts of 
Kate Morewood as his wife. 

The next morning the door of the mill that opened 
toward the farm was closely barred, and the now re- 
pentant belle might have supposed its owner had 
drowned himself in despair, had not the busy -wheel, 
pursuing its noisy and ceaseless evolutions, convinced 
her he was still in the land of the living. But in vain 



260 



GRAHAM 



MAGAZINE 



were her loveliest looks assumed, and her best attire 
adjusted. In vain she smoothed her dark hair, and 
sat at the window of her little sitting-room to listen 
for his step, or hear him lift the latch of the garden 
gate. 

"He came not with the dawn, and he came not with the 

noon, 
Nor came he when the sun went down, and rose the silver 

moon." 

The miller was in fact an altered man. He banned 
the hour when he had learned to love, and resolved 
never to think of a woman again as long as he lived. 
In this frame of mind he placed his affairs in the hands 
of James Gray, and left home to visit a distant relative 
in the far west, nor did he return for several months. 
In the meanwhile gossip, with its hundred tongues, had 
discussed at length the events of farmer Symington's 
dance, and the flirtation of Kate Morewood with Mr. 
Smith ; the downfall of Harry Lee and his subsequent 
departure were amply descanted on. Kate began to 
look melancholy, and every body wondered — as 
every body will — how the matter would end. 

The birds came back from their winter excursions, 
and with them came Harry Lee. He had a score of 
marvelous tales to relate to James Gray, which he had 
gathered in his western tour, and was so much en- 
grossed by this and other matters, that nearly a fort- 
night elapsed before he found an opportunity to visit 
his village friends; but the Morewoods were in- 
cluded when he made his rounds, and then the calm 
tone and careless manner with which he addressed 
Kate, told her at once that he had regained his free- 
dom. 

Having resolved never to marry, and considering 
himself perfectly invulnerable to the shafts of Cupid, 
Harry sometimes amused himself watching Jemima 
May at work in her garden with Susan to assist her, 
and once he caught himself thinking ■that Susy was 
certainly a very pretty girl. " But what of that?" he 
mentally exclaimed. " What are pretty girls to me 
now ? I, will never trust another as long as I live, or 
any other woman." Notwithstanding this charitable 
conclusion, however, Harry remembered that he had 
brought homesome choice pumpkin seeds, which would 
doubtless please Jemima, and the natural goodness of 
his heart overcoming its assumed bitterness, he forth- 
with proceeded to carry her a paper of them. Then 
he walked through the garden to point out the spot 
most proper to receive them, and then back into the 
house again to inspect a certain parcel of dried roots, 
which the Quakeress had just received from New 
York, and although he only noticed Susanjjy a civil 
bow, yet. her heart fluttered like a bird during the 



whole of his visit. Had she been successful in her 
efforts to forget him ? 

The spring passed away, and summer with her gifts 
of fruit and flowers came laughingly on ; scattering 
her treasures far and wide, and nowhere more lavish 
of her stores than in our fair and sequestered village. 
Green were the lanes that wound in every direction, 
and bright were the blue skies that bent over them. 
The birds were the noisiest varlets in the world, and 
the babbling stream went rejoicing on its way flash- 
ing back the sunbeams as it danced beneath them. 
By some unforeseen accident, (such things will some- 
times ocur, even when we take every precaution to 
avoid them) our friend Susan and the miller met oc- 
casionally at James Gray's, and once the distressed 
damsel was overtaken by a thunder shower, and might 
have been carried away by the violence of the rain, 
for she was at a distance from any shelter, had not 
Harry chanced to meet her, and wrapping her in his 
own coat escorted her home. 

I cannot tell why it was so, but I do know that after 
that walk the miller very frequently stood at his door- 
way to observe how Susan got on with her gardening, 
and often he carried over a basket of particularly fine 
fruit to Jemima, and then a bunch of late roses, 
because " he had noticed that Susan's were all gone." 
Until at last one soft September evening, when the 
moon was looking down from her blue abode, and the 
stars peeped through 1he branches of the old elm tree, 
Harry stood beneath the vine-wreathed porch beside 
the fair and trembling girl; and in words, few but 
sincere, offered an honest heart for her acceptance. 

I am sorry I cannot record Susy's answer, for if she 
made any it was so indistinct as not to have reached 
me ; but I know at a later hour than usual that night, 
after blushing, and hesitating, and turning pale, she at 
last found words to tell Aunt Mima a great secret, 
which made the kind old quakeress look much troubled, 
and even shed tears. I know also that Susan suddenly 
overcame her reluctance to leave her own home, and 
that ere the woods had quite lost their leafy honors, 
she had worn a bridal robe, and been dignified with 
the matronly title of " Mistress Lee." 

Kate Morewood's high spirit prevented her dying 
of a broken heart when she witnessed the happiness 
of her rival. She shook off herVgrief, aud lo the world 
without was almost as gay as ever. But she seemed 
to fear all further coquetry, and bestowed her hand 
and fortune upon an honest fellow who proposed, 
Joseph Crane forgot his disappointment in the smiles 
of a gentle maiden of his own persuasion, and Jemima 
May, having sold her cottage, acceded to the earnest 
wishes of lhe newly wedded pair, and went to end 
her days with her beloved Susy. 



TO IDA 



id \, an let ed long and far, 

Uirrestful and alone, 
Until thy presence, lite a star. 

Across tin- darkness shone : 
But now, beneath thy radiant 9miles, 

1 think not of the wearj m i 



The} say that angels from above 

Have i tal (rallies put Oil- 
That ei i ing souls, by human love 
Thus oft to heav'n are won : — 
And in thy mien— thy earnest 
1 see the spirit from the skies : 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: Sept. 2009 

PreservationTechnologies 

A WORLO LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 

111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township. PA 16066 
(724)779-2111 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




0012 



074 839 7 ^%\ 



